The Black Bass, built in 1745, had a very different history than its New Jersey cousin, the Swan. It was a renowned Tory stronghold during the Revolution, and the dusty Union Jack over the bar was supposedly from that era—though it was admittedly hard to separate legend from reality in some of the claims that were made about the hotel. There were glass cases displaying scores of objects and artifacts, allegedly from the British Royal Family, all the way from Queen Victoria to the present.
Lee had worked there one summer as a teenager and remembered the owner well. His name was Mr. Shelton, and he was an odd, elderly gentleman with a halo of white hair, a pink face, and an alarming way of biting off his consonants when he spoke. He was inordinately fond of Boston bull terriers, and when Lee knew him, he kept three of them, the oldest and meanest of which was a female named Samantha—Sam for short—who had a vendetta against children. Lee still remembered the delight the old gentleman took in introducing him to the dogs, and the strange little smile he had when he said, “This is Sam. Sam doesn’t like children.” Even though he had yet to learn about the concept of projection, Lee had an instinctive understanding that the dog was Mr. Shelton’s alter ego.
The front hall was deserted when they entered it. It smelled musty, of damp, ancient wood and slowly growing fungus. The wide floorboards creaked under their feet, and as always Lee had the feeling of being transported to the era when the building was constructed, over 250 years ago. He looked around. Not much had changed since his childhood—the entrance to the bar was still on the right, the narrow wooden stairs leading up to the rooms visible from the front entrance. The little sitting room where Mr. Shelton kept his dogs was on the left, covered by a thick brocade curtain with a blue-on-white design of fat naked angels cavorting, harps and roses in their plump little hands.
They heard a rustling sound from the sitting room and turned just as an exceptionally handsome young man emerged from it. He was of medium height, with thick, curly black hair, an olive complexion, and a face that was almost pretty, with a wide mouth and deep-set almond-shaped eyes. He wore a navy blazer over crisp white shirt and ironed blue jeans. His attitude was friendly but a little suspicious. He regarded them warily, while maintaining a courteous smile.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for lunch. Can I help you?” he asked, crossing his arms and tilting his head to one side.
“Yeah, we’re lookin’ for Raymond Santiago,” Butts said, swinging his large head around to peer through the partially opened curtains.
The young man smoothly closed the curtains behind him, and his smile relaxed a bit. “I’m Ray Santiago—can I help you?”
“Mr. Santiago,” Lee said, “maybe you’d like to sit down. I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
“I don’t need to sit down,” he replied. “What is it?”
“It concerns your girlfriend, Ana Watkins,” Butts said, holding up his badge.
Santiago’s face hardened when he saw the shield. “What about her? Is she okay?”
Butts glanced at Lee, so he took over. Once again, he thought it was best to get it over with quickly. As his mother used to say, tearing off a bandage slowly always hurt more than a single quick, firm pull.
Lee took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but she’s dead.”
Santiago’s reaction was unexpected. He stood for a moment staring at them, then abruptly burst out laughing. It was the strangest reaction to bad news Lee had ever seen. He and Butts stood watching uncomfortably as Santiago laughed.
Finally the laughter subsided, and he said, “Okay, you guys, well done—you really had me fooled. Tell Ana that was a good one. I like the whole thing with the badge—for a minute you totally had me.”
“Mr. Santiago, this is not a joke,” Butts said, looking irritated.
Santiago’s eyes twinkled. “No, of course it’s not. Hey, where did she find you guys? You’re good, you really are.” He looked from Butts to Lee and back again. Lee saw the instant the realization hit him. His face froze, then went slack. He took a step backward, as if he had been pushed. His breath caught in his throat and he said simply: “No.”
“I’m so sorry—” Lee began, but Santiago grabbed him by the shoulders, looked deeply into his eyes, and said, “No, don’t. Just shut up—please?”
“Mr. Santiago—” Butts said, but Santiago waved him off.
“No, no, no! Stop it, please, just don’t do this.”
He looked as if he was about to crumple to the floor, so Lee grasped him firmly by the elbow and guided him through the foyer and into the empty restaurant. Butts trudged along behind, muttering to himself. Lee knew the detective hated delivering bad news. He didn’t care much for it himself. He escorted Santiago to the nearest chair and gently sat him down. Santiago began to rock, hugging himself and whimpering softly.
“What happened?” he whispered. “How did she—I mean, was it—did she—?”
“No, she didn’t take her own life,” Lee said. “We think she was murdered.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Santiago said, and began rocking again. “Who would—she didn’t have any enemies, for Christ’s sake! Who on earth—do you know who did it?” he asked imploringly.
“No, I’m afraid we don’t,” Butts said.
He looked as if he was about to lay a hand on Santiago’s shoulder, then checked the impulse, and stared down miserably at his shoes, waiting for him to snap out of it. Both he and Lee seemed to sense that the moment couldn’t be rushed, so Lee took a look around the restaurant while they waited, inhaling the familiar old building smell of moldering ancient secrets.
Little had changed since he was a boy. The dining area was surprisingly airy after the cramped entrance hall, with wooden tables and chairs scattered sparingly around a single large room. Tables lined the far wall of the restaurant, which was dominated by a row of windows overlooking the river. The oak tables and chairs were of eighteenth-century design, and the dark wood had been chosen to match the wide burnished floorboards, which were original. He remembered as a boy how he imagined centuries of feet treading those boards, the soft click and shuffle of shoe leather back and forth as people came and went. This building had been standing for over thirty years when the revolution began, and had sheltered Tories and patriots within its walls—brigands and bandits, lovers and murderers alike.
Santiago had stopped rocking and was staring off into space, a dazed expression on his handsome face. He exchanged a look with Butts, who frowned and raised his shaggy eyebrows.
“Mr. Santiago?” Lee said tentatively. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but we’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Santiago looked at up them with childlike vulnerability. His dark eyes were free of tears, but they were wild with grief. He gazed at Lee searchingly, as if he somehow held the power to release Santiago from this pain. Lee knew exactly how he felt and knew there was no release but time itself.
“Is that okay with you?” Butts said, and Santiago nodded. Lee wondered if they would get much out of him—he was still in a state of shock.
“How did she die?” he said, his voice trembling.
“She was drowned.”
Santiago shivered. “She hated the water.” “When’s the last time you saw her?” Butts asked. “Friday. We had a fight, see, about this fear she had that she was being followed. I told her it was all in her head, and she got angry at me and stormed out.” His voice was a shaky monotone, as if the power of his grief was blocking any expression of emotion. “She was always doing things like that—she was a real drama queen, you know. So when she didn’t call over the weekend I figured she was just sulking and thought I’d let her chill out for a while. Her moods never lasted more than a couple of days. I called her this morning before I left for work and got her voice mail. I thought maybe she was studying. She is—was—taking a class at Rutgers.”
Lee’s calls to her had also bounced to her voice mail repeatedly. No cell phone was on the body when
she was found. Lee knew Chuck had sent the CSI team over to her house at the same time he and Butts were heading out—they might even still be there, for all he knew. The cell phone, if found, might contain clues, but then again, it might not.
“You say she was worried about bein’ followed,” Butts said. “Who exactly did she think was following her?”
“Okay,” Santiago said, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers, as if trying to massage away the cobwebs in his brain. He was beginning to look more focused now—his eyes were clearer, and when he spoke his voice was less monotone and distant. “She was seeing this crazy shrink. I thought he was a total quack and told her so—”
“How did she react to that?” Lee interjected.
“Man, she did not like that at all,” he said with a bitter little laugh. “Told me to go f—uh, screw myself. Said she had finally found someone who was going to help her unlock the secrets of her past, you know, and that I should just back off and let her do her thing. So I was like, all right, if that’s what you need to do that’s okay, just don’t expect me to agree with it. ‘Cause I really thought this guy was whacked, you know?”
“Dr. Perkins?” said Lee.
“Yeah, that’s his name. Why, do you know him?”
“No,” said Lee. “Did you ever meet him?”
“No, man, but I seen him once getting into his car when I picked her up there one time, and he had a look about him, you know?”
“What kinda look?” Butts said.
Santiago shrugged. “Just like, you know, the guy looked evil, man. I mean, he’s all thin and gaunt with a little goatee and everything. Christ, he looks like the devil. I know you can’t judge people from the way they look or anything, but this guy gave me the creeps.”
Butts looked at Lee and then back at Santiago. “So you never spoke to him?”
“No. I wanted to, but Ana said I couldn’t—that it would violate ‘doctor–patient confidentiality,’ or some bullshit like that, but I thought she was just trying to protect him. He had her under some kind of spell, if you ask me.”
“Like a magic spell, you mean?” Butts said.
Santiago froze, his eyes wide. “God, you don’t think—I mean, I know he’s whacked, but do you think he could have—”
“It’s very unlikely,” Lee reassured him. “We think Ana was the victim of someone who has killed before.”
“Really? So you might know who killed her?” Santiago searched their faces for a sign of hope.
“No. We don’t have an actual suspect yet,” Butts answered.
Santiago’s whole body seemed to deflate. He slumped back down in his chair, and his vacant stare returned. “I don’t know, man—maybe I could have done something to prevent this. I just don’t believe it. How could this happen to her? What did she ever do to anybody?”
“You said before she thought she was being followed,” Butts reminded him. “Did she say anything more about that, like who it might be?”
Santiago ran a hand through his curly black hair, which glistened in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the row of windows. Outside, Lee could see the water of the Delaware sparkling silver in waves of reflected light.
“She was real secretive about that. She said she’d uncovered some kind of childhood abuse or trauma or something. I got the sense that the doc had spooked her so much that she believed whoever it was had come back to get her.”
“So you didn’t really believe her?” Lee asked.
“Naw, man, I just thought it was that crazy doctor, filling her head with all kinds of nonsense. That’s the thing about Ana: she’s—she was gullible, you know? She was always looking for answers, and when someone came along who looked like they had them, man, she was right there, first in line to get wisdom. The thing was, she wasn’t always good at judging people, so she could get hurt.” He shook his head sadly. “I tried to protect her—I always told her to question people’s motives more, that kind of thing.”
“Like with Dr. Perkins?” Lee asked.
“Yeah. That’s why, when we had that fight on Friday, she was so angry at me—because I didn’t believe her. Jesus,” he said softly. “Do you think that’s who killed her—whoever was following her? I mean, do you think there really was someone following her?”
“It’s possible,” Lee said, “but even if there was, it’s also possible that her death was totally unrelated.”
“Oh, man, I’d never forgive myself if it turned out her crazy fantasy was true. I just thought it was another one of Dr. Perkins’s latest weirdo theories—and he had plenty of them, let me tell you.”
“Like what?” Butts asked.
“Oh, man, you name it. He had this whole thing about past lives, and all kinds of mystical crap.” He snorted in disgust. “I left that shit when I left California, man. I can’t believe
I ran back into it on the East Coast. There’s irony for you, huh?”
“Yeah, real ironic,” Butts replied. “Do you happen to have this guy’s contact number?”
“Yeah, it’s in my office. Just give me a second, okay?”
They followed him to the front of the building and waited in the foyer while he went into his office, emerging shortly with the number written on the back of an old menu.
“Here you go—he’s in Stockton, just the other side of the river in Jersey.”
“I know it,” Lee said, taking the number, which was scribbled in between the tenderloin of pork with sage dressing and the salmon mousse with dill sauce. “Thanks a lot.” He glanced at Butts. It was time to end this interview—they had what they came for.
“I—I guess I should talk to someone about a funeral,” Santiago said, gazing off toward the river. A hazy mist had settled over the sluggishly flowing water. “She had no family, you know. A lot of friends, but … I guess we were her family.”
“I think that would be a good idea, when you’re up to it,” Lee said.
They thanked Santiago and expressed their condolences again, leaving him a business card in case he remembered anything else. He followed them outside like a puppy, as if they were the last link to Ana and he was sorry to see them go. The last image Lee had in the rearview mirror was Santiago standing in front of the Black Bass, shielding his eyes from the sun with an upraised arm, looking after their car as it drove away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Butts’s stomach couldn’t take any more fasting, so Lee drove to Dilly’s Corner, a hamburger and ice cream stand along the River Road where it met Coldspring Road. It had been a favorite of his and Laura’s when they were children, and was open all year round. It was very popular with tourists in the summer season, but also served as an after-school hangout for the local kids. As a boy Lee always thought it was cool being able to buy ice cream on a little country road in the middle of nowhere—the stand was several miles away from the nearest town.
As they sat at the wooden picnic table eating cheeseburgers and fries, Butts said, “You know, this place ain’t half bad—this is actually a decent cheeseburger.”
Butts happily stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth, picked up his chocolate milkshake, put the straw to his lips, and sucked deeply on it, his eyes half closed with pleasure. Lee shuddered and looked away. He had never understood chocolate milkshakes with cheeseburgers—it struck him as excessive and rather revolting. He glanced at his watch. It was half past three—they would be driving back to the city during rush hour. At least they would be going against the traffic, though that didn’t always work out, as the middle lanes on both the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels would be switched over for the outbound commuters.
“Well,” he said, tossing his sandwich wrapper into the metal trash can, “shall we pay Dr. Perkins a house call?”
Butts gave his milkshake a final mighty slurp and wiped his mouth with a satisfied flourish. “Now that was worth waitin’ for!” he declared, and shuffled behind Lee to the car. As they arrived at the green Saturn, Lee caught a movement out of the side of his
eye, over in the woods next to Dilly’s Corner. Probably a deer, he thought—they were in abundance this time of year. In fact, they were hazardous to motorists, especially after dark—it was easy to hit one as it leapt out of the woods into the glare of headlights. He had a number of friends at school who had totaled their parents’ cars that way.
“Whatchya lookin’ at?” said Butts, noticing Lee peering into the thick green canopy of leaves.
“I saw something—probably just a deer,” Lee said, climbing into the car.
“You sure?” Butts remarked sarcastically as he climbed into the Saturn. “You sure it wasn’t an alien or something?”
“Very funny. We should remember to tell Dr. Perkins about it.”
“Yeah. Maybe we’ll get abducted if we’re lucky.” Butts stretched his seat belt across his body and patted his bulging belly. “Jeez, I shouldn’t ‘a had that second order of fries.” He sighed. “I just know the wife is gonna put me on a diet this month—I can see it in her eyes. She’s got that look, you know? Ah well, I might as well live it up while I can. It’s broccoli and black beans from now on.”
Lee smiled and started up the engine. Dr. Martin Perkins had an office in downtown Stockton—not that there was much of a downtown to speak of. It consisted of little more than a liquor store, a grocery store called Errico’s Market, a gas station, and a couple of restaurants. One of the restaurants was the historic Stockton Inn, which contained the wishing well made famous in the Rodgers and Hart song “There’s a Small Hotel.” Lee’s mother never tired of pointing this out to visitors. Lee had a job there one summer as a busboy when he was a teenager, riding his bike the mile and a half from his mother’s house to get there.
Driving down the tiny main street pulled at his already raw emotions—it held so many memories of him and Laura. He thought about all the times they walked across the footbridge to Pennsylvania, or strolled along the canal towpath toward New Hope, or dipped into the Delaware for a quick swim. They loved doing errands for their mother, picking up groceries at Errico’s, racing their bikes back along the towpath and up the hill to the stone house with its sweeping lawn and weeping willow trees.
Silent Victim Page 8