by Trace Conger
When I finished the pasta, Kim walked to the table and set the bill down in front of me. It was in the same type of wallet she kept her notepad in.
"I've got a strange question for you," I said.
"What's that?"
"I'm working on a book and I thought you might be able to help."
"A book? Not sure why you'd want to talk to me. Unless your book's about an overworked waitresses trying to raise two kids."
"No." I placed a hundred-dollar bill on top of the black wallet she'd plunked on the table and handed it back to her. "It's about Raymond Turner. I hear you know him."
She looked at the bill and then to me. "I don't have anything to say about him. Nothing at all. And I'd rather you not ask me anything else."
She clutched the wallet to her chest. "I'll be back with your change, sir."
"Keep it," I said.
"Your money ain't gonna make a difference. I still don't have anything to say about Ray."
"I know." I stood up and walked out of the bar, brushing past the man in the University of Delaware T-shirt on the way out.
There was a fine line between not having something to say about Turner and not wanting to say something about Turner. The twenty-something in the T-shirt would confirm which it was. If she was still close to Turner, her next step would be to call him. Maybe warn him or tip him off that someone was looking for him. If she made the call my next move would be to somehow lift her phone and search through the outbound history for a number. I could also get a look at her credit card statements and search for any airline or hotel purchases. If they still had some type of relationship after all these years maybe she traveled somewhere to see him.
I climbed into my Navigator and waited. A few minutes passed and my cell buzzed.
"She call anyone?" I said.
"No. I watched her for five minutes. She made two drinks and refilled the ice hopper behind the bar."
"That's it?"
"Yeah. That and I think she was crying because she reapplied some makeup. We'll probably be here for another twenty minutes. I'll let you know if she calls anyone, but so far nothing."
"Thanks for the help." I hung up the phone knowing she wouldn't dial Turner.
If someone you love is in hiding and someone like me comes looking for them, you make the call and tell them. You don't wait until the end of your shift, reapply your makeup, or refill the ice bin. You pull the phone from your back pocket and you dial. Kim Burton was a dead end and my investigation into Turner was off to a shitty start.
I arrived back in Parkersburg around four o'clock on Monday afternoon.
THE PAY PHONE WAS A strong lead and I hoped that by Wednesday night, the next time Theresa slapped on her black and pink Spandex leggings and ran to that phone, I'd confirm whether she was talking to Jacob or someone else. I didn't have much to do until then, so I spent Monday evening strolling the streets of Parkersburg. I found a used bookstore and bought two Donald Westlake novels. I picked up 361 and Somebody Owes Me Money for $1.99 each and felt guilty about not paying more.
By Wednesday afternoon I had finished both books and took in a horror movie at the local cinema that charged four bucks per ticket, accepted only cash and sold soft drinks in the can.
Fourteen
THERESA VANCE MIGHT HAVE INADVERTENTLY led me to her son, but the only way I could confirm whether he was on the other side of that phone was to listen in on the conversation. I had a few pieces of information in my back pocket. Thanks to the telephone records from South Land I knew that phone would ring at 9 p.m. that evening, and I knew whoever was making the call was punching in the numbers from a pay phone in Flower Mound, Texas.
All signs pointed to Jacob on the other end, but I couldn't rule out an affair or some other person who might want to contact Theresa in secret. Identifying whom Theresa was talking to wouldn't be tough. It only took a roll of duct tape and an audio recorder. It would have been more difficult had the calling pattern been random, but Theresa and her secret caller traded unpredictability for convenience.
When I’d tailed Theresa three days ago she arrived at just the right time to answer that phone because she knew the exact time to be there. She'd probably used this routine for years, and I'd bet my two Westlake paperbacks she timed her route perfectly so she arrived at the phone seconds before that receiver rattled.
That night at 8:45 p.m. I drove past the King Kwik convenience store and parked on the opposite corner of the street, a few hundred feet from the pay phone. I yanked my red Sony audio recorder from my coat pocket and clicked it on. Then I ripped a six-inch piece of duct tape from the gray roll and pressed it onto the back of the recorder being careful not to cover the tiny silver microphone. Placing the device in my hand, I opened the car door and stepped out. I crossed the street and had just stepped onto the cracked pavement of the King Kwik parking lot when a police cruiser pulled into the lot and parked. A uniformed officer and a teenage boy stepped out of the cruiser and stood talking next to the entrance.
Shit.
I tucked my hand closer to my side to hide the device. With the officer standing ten feet from the pay phone I couldn't risk placing the recorder, but if I didn't stash it soon I'd have to wait another four days, until next Sunday, to try again. I strolled past the officer and the teenager, gave them a nod and pushed open the heavy convenience store door. The door chime jingled above my head and the smell of hot dogs hit me. I didn't feel hungry, but now I wasn't sure. Once I made it to the back of the store, beyond the gaze of the large convex mirror mounted in the corner near the ceiling, I tucked the audio recorder into my waistband. I smoothed out the duct tape so the ends wouldn't stick to one another and buttoned my peacoat.
Except for the clerk behind the counter, I was the only person in the store. I wandered through the aisles trying to appear like I was looking for something. Every few feet I glanced up at the officer, waiting for him to either come in or leave, but he stood there chatting with his teenage friend.
My watch read 8:56 p.m. Theresa would arrive soon. I poured a small cup of nutty coffee from the lukewarm carafe next to the Krispy Kreme donut display and watched as the officer and the teenager talked in front of the store. The officer pointed down the street and the boy's head followed the motion. I slapped a dollar on the counter as the clerk set his magazine down and rang up the coffee. He swiped the dollar, stuffed it in the drawer and closed the register without saying anything. I nodded and walked toward the door.
From inside the store I saw Theresa jogging toward the entrance of her neighborhood. She was still a ways out, but the pink stripe bouncing up and down her leg gave her away. She was closing at a quick pace and would be at the phone in a few minutes.
I felt the clerk's eyes on me as I stared out the door. The officer turned and noticed me too. I opened the door and walked into the parking lot. I passed the officer and approached the pay phone. He said something to the boy about a high-speed pursuit through the area a few years ago. From the exchange I got the impression the kid was on a ride-along and the officer was doing his best to keep him interested. I approached the pay phone and set my coffee cup on top of the silver stand. In one smooth motion I removed the recorder from my waist, clicked the record button, and hastily stuck it to the underside of the pay phone stand with my right hand. At the same time I poked my left index finger into the coin return slot and flicked the swinging metal door, making sure the sound was loud enough for the officer to hear. I swiped my cup, turned back toward the officer and walked past him with my head down.
"Old habit," I said. "If I see a pay phone I have to check for change. Never find shit these days."
He cracked a smile and I crossed the street just as Theresa jogged behind me. A moment later the phone rang, but was quickly silenced as Theresa jerked the receiver from the cradle. I didn't turn around, but I imagined the officer and the kid wondered why she was taking a call in a convenience store parking lot. There wasn't anything illegal about it, and Theresa Va
nce looked as much like a criminal as the kid in the button-up dress shirt and khakis standing next to the police officer.
I slipped into my Navigator and watched as Theresa swayed back and forth in front of the phone. I knew the conversation wouldn't last long—never more than three or four minutes according to the call log. Just enough time for Theresa and her caller to share a few thoughts and be on their way. Part of me felt bad for Theresa. As a parent myself, I tried to think about what it would be like to hear about your kid's life through a few three-minute phone calls every week. But every time I found myself feeling sorry for her I thought about those crime scene photos and what happened to Josh Baker and Theresa's problems faded away like the sun burning off an early morning fog.
After a few minutes Theresa hung up the phone, looked over her shoulder and jogged out of the parking lot. As she crossed the street the cruiser pulled out of the lot and sped down the street toward something more exciting.
I waited until Theresa passed through the entrance to her neighborhood before I climbed out of the car, walked across the parking lot, snatched my recorder from the underside of the phone stand and stopped the recording. I wanted to play back the recording right there in the lot, but I waited until I returned to the car.
My thumb trembled as I held it above the play button. I took a long drink from my Styrofoam coffee cup and clicked on the unit. Theresa's voice was the first one I heard.
"Hello," she said.
"Hi again," said the man on the other end, his faint voice crackling. It sounded like an old drive-in movie speaker, the dull metal kind Albert used to clip to our station wagon window when I was a kid.
The exchange was brief. Over the course of three minutes the male voice shared snippets of the past few days with Theresa. His voice cut in and out, which I expected considering my sophisticated approach of taping a digital recorder to the underside of a pay phone. For as old as it was, the recorder had a sensitive mic and while I didn't expect to get the entire exchange, I hoped I could get what I needed.
The man talked about some childcare business and said they were adding a few more children to the roster. He said something about an X-ray revealing he might need surgery, but I couldn't make out the details. He asked Theresa if she was looking forward to Thanksgiving and she replied she was. He didn't say anything to identify himself until the final seconds of the call.
"Tell Dad I said hello," he said. For some reason, that part of the conversation came through as if he were standing right next to me.
"You know I can't do that," said Theresa. She laughed nervously and I got the feeling every call ended the same way.
They exchanged goodbyes and Theresa hung up. I clicked off the audio recorder and tossed it into the cup holder on my console. Theresa and Thomas Vance only had one son. I had my guy. Time to go to Texas and find Jacob Vance.
Fifteen
THAT NIGHT I SLEPT IN my own bed in Cincinnati. The person I hoped was Jacob Vance wasn't going to call Theresa again until Sunday evening. It would take two days to drive to Flower Mound, Texas, to sit on that pay phone, which meant I could spend Thursday and Friday at home before a two-day drive put me in Texas on Sunday afternoon.
I arrived at my apartment a little before one o'clock in the morning. Albert was already asleep when I dropped my suitcase in my room and hit the pillow harder than I had in a long time.
That night I dreamt of Josh Baker. In the dream, I stood in a lush green field that looked like it should be inside a lawn care company's brochure. Josh stood in front of me. He stood inside a patch of dead brown grass, a perfect circle maybe two-feet in diameter. It took me a moment to realize it was Josh. I'd never seen a clear photo of him. All of the images I had seen in the newspaper coverage were black-and-white photos, each one grainier than the last. The crime scene photos only showed the left side of Josh's face, which was obscured by blood. The etching of his face on his gravestone lacked any detail, so the dream was the first time I got to take him all in. He didn't say anything, only stared at me with a look that I guessed was pity.
A tall man stood next to Josh holding his hand. I tried to focus on his face to make out the detail, but I couldn't. I looked straight at him but I couldn't describe a single feature on his face. The only thing that stood out about him was the ground beneath his feet. Unlike Josh's brown patch, this man stood in the same lush green grass as the field in front of me. I stared at the man, but the more I tried to look at him the harder it became to focus. His face was like a floater in your eye—the moment you try to find it, it darts to the side. I waited for Josh to say something but he didn't. He only stared at me. After a moment the man placed his palm flat on the top of Josh's head, as if indicating that our brief time together was over, and I woke up.
I walked in on Albert making eggs in the kitchen around nine o'clock in the morning. He hadn't heard me come into the apartment, and by the way he jumped back and grabbed a kitchen knife I knew I had startled him.
"Jesus Christ, son."
"Did I scare you?"
"Not you exactly. Just your beard." He turned back to his sizzling skillet. "It's like a face fungus or something."
I ran my hands down the side of my face. I did need a trim. Not a shave, but a trim.
"You know what would look good with that beard?" he said.
"What's that?"
"A red flannel shirt and a sharp axe."
I laughed and poured a cup of coffee.
"When you get back in?"
"Late last night."
"Still in West Virginia?"
"I was. I need to be in Texas by Sunday night."
"What's in Texas?"
"One of the guys I'm looking for."
"One of? How many people are on your list?"
"Just two," I said.
"How long you going to be there?"
"Not sure, but hoping not long."
Albert scooped his eggs out of the skillet and slid them onto a piece of toast. He pointed to the range. "You want me to leave this on?"
"That depends. We out of eggs?"
"Yes," he said.
"Then no."
I followed him to the table and sat down with my coffee. "How's Brooke and Becca?"
"Good. She's dropping Becca off tomorrow night. We're going to do Dewey's for pizza." He took a bite and pointed his egg sandwich at me. "You said you have to be in Texas on Sunday, so that means you're here for a few days."
"I'll leave first thing Saturday morning."
"Good, then you can come with us. Brooke was going to join us. Hope that's okay."
"I don't have a problem with it."
He wiped his chin with his hand. "So what's going on with you two? Am I going to need to find a new place to live?"
"Why would you need to do that?"
"Figured if you two got back together you wouldn't need your old man helping around the house."
"First off, you don't help around the house. You eat all the eggs and make weak coffee. And second, why am I the only one who isn't part of this getting-back-together conversation? We haven't really talked about it."
"She mentioned it to me the other day. Asked what I thought about it."
"What do you think about it?"
He shrugged and shoved a bite into his mouth. "Don't much matter. Course it would be good for Becca. She'd get to live with her parents again."
"I don't know if that's a good thing or not. The last thing I want to do is put her in a position to see the cracks form again. Sometimes it's better to have a strong splintered family than weak whole one." I sipped my coffee. "Guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
THE NEXT NIGHT WE FOUND our usual table at Dewey's Pizza and burned the roofs of our mouths on the best pizza in Cincinnati. Becca and I have had dinner there every Friday night since Brooke and I split five years ago. Albert joined us once we moved in together. Consistency didn't show its face much in my line of work, but Becca's weekend sleepovers and dinner at Dewey's on Fri
day night were anchors in an otherwise tumultuous sea. I already felt like garbage having to miss out on Becca's sleepovers until I wrapped the Baker case, and if I had a chance to make our standing Friday night tradition I was damn sure going to take it.
Brooke joining us was different. Albert had suggested it, and given Brooke's recent breakup with Dr. Dickhead, I figured she could use the company. Brooke and I exchanged casual conversation and awkward glances throughout the meal. Albert must have sensed Brooke wanted a minute alone with me, because as soon as the waitress exchanged the aluminum pizza tray for the bill he suggested he and Becca visit the patio to watch the koi in the pond.
"Did you think about what I said the other day?" asked Brooke. "About spending more time together?"
"Hard not to think about it, but I get the feeling this is some knee-jerk reaction to you leaving Daryl. Not much has changed in my life and all the reasons you left me and ran for the hills are still in play."
"I did lay it on pretty hard didn't I? About your job and not knowing if you'd come home at night."
"I seem to remember something about me getting shot and bleeding to death in an alley." I patted my chest searching for bullet holes. "So far, I've only got holes where they're supposed to be."
She laughed. "Let's hope that streak continues." She reached for the check but I grabbed it out from under her fingers.
"What is it that you're looking for Brooke? What's going to make this time different?"
"I don't know. I've had a lot of time to think about the decision I made and I'm not sure it was the right one."
"I can't shake the feeling it's all going to come crumbling down again."
"So what if it does? What's the worst that could happen?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe we break a little girl's heart again. That's enough to make me wary.”
She nodded. "Then maybe we ease into it. See if it works. That's all I'm asking."
I slipped three $20s inside the black wallet with the bill. "I don't plan on changing my line of work. This is what I do and I'm happy doing it."