by Meg Muldoon
I was helpless to do anything but smile, too.
It was a miserable night for a stakeout. But with hot coffee, Mugs, and the man who was setting my world ablaze sitting next to me … well, it didn’t feel miserable at all.
Chapter 20
I watched him through the rain-streaked window pane as he got out of his car and jaunted up the steps of the apartment building.
Even from up on the seventh floor, I could see that something was different about him today.
I gripped the edge of the windowsill, watching as he disappeared below. A mist swirled up from the street, the way it did when it rained in Portland in the summertime.
It had been so hard lately. Mom’s relapse. Making those trips back and forth from Portland to Dog Mountain to be with her. The thought of the little time we had left together. The evenings spent crying myself to sleep, trying to picture a world that she wouldn’t be part of. Shuddering through my restless nights as the shadow of death grew longer with each passing day.
In all of it, he had been the small sliver of light. His support and his patience and his friendship and the way he listened to everything I said. He’d been the only thing I could think about that would make me feel better instead of worse.
The apartment intercom buzzed, the way I knew it would. I went over to the faded plastic yellow box and pressed the button to open the downstairs door.
A few moments later, there was a loud, urgent knock.
I opened my door without looking through the eyehole.
I already knew.
His placid, sea glass eyes met mine.
“It’s over,” he said before I could say anything.
I didn’t ask. I knew what he was talking about.
“Kathryn and me. We’re done.”
I gripped the door knob hard to keep my hands from shaking.
“You know why?”
I shook my head.
He stepped forward, looking at me with those puppy dog eyes. So close I could smell the distinct aroma of Mirror Pond Pale Ale on his breath.
“It’s because of you, Red,” he said. “She knows I love you. She knows I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I felt the wind go out of my lungs as he reached for my waist and pulled me to him.
“Red, I’m here right now because I need you,” he said. “Just tell me you need me, too.”
I’d been dreaming of those words for months now. Words that I hoped against hope for. Words that until now had been nearly as fantastical as seeing a unicorn in Pioneer Courthouse Square.
“Red…” he exhaled, looking deep into my eyes. “Red, I know you love me too.”
“It has to be over,” I said. “100 percent over with Kathryn, Jimmy. Because if it’s not, then this can’t—”
“Oh, it’s over,” he said, cutting me off. “Anything between me and Kathryn was finished long ago, Freddie. We’ve both known it for a while now. But neither one of us has wanted to admit it.”
I believed every word.
“Jimmy, I need you,” I finally said.
He drew my face to his and his lips were suddenly on mine. The kiss started out gentle, but as he ran his hands through my hair, it intensified and grew impatient.
We moved inside the apartment.
I pulled away for a moment, searching his pale eyes.
“I love you too, Jimmy,” I whispered.
He smiled.
“I know, Red. I know.”
He kissed me again.
I never wanted him to stop.
Chapter 21
“Grrr… Grrr… Grrr…”
I jerked forward in panic, my eyes flinging open.
Mugs was growling, rearing his teeth, his gaze fixed on something out the blurry windshield.
The man next to me in the driver’s seat came into focus.
It took my sluggish mind a moment to realize that it was Sam. And that he was looking at me.
My stomach suddenly tightened as the dream came back to me, and I sat up even further, sucking in a deep breath of air.
I’d fallen asleep while we were waiting to see some movement at the Monahan household. Fallen asleep, and started dreaming.
Dreaming about past memories I shouldn’t have been dreaming about.
Had I… Did Sam…
Did he know?
Had I whispered something while in the throes of the dream?
I searched his eyes, looking for some answer to the questions. But his expression gave nothing away in the dim, uneven light coming from the streetlamps.
I felt sick to my stomach suddenly.
The dream had been so real, so vivid – the memory of Jimmy and that day a year and a half ago so very, very clear.
I shuddered at the thought of returning to that moment in my life.
I’d been foolish and weak and vulnerable then. And above all, stupid. Really, really stupid.
It wasn’t a place I wanted to revisit.
“What time is it?” I said, my voice coming out hoarse.
My throat was bone dry.
“Half past one,” Sam whispered. “And I think the wait might be over, Freddie. We’ve got a development.”
I sat up in the seat and followed his gaze. Mugs continued to growl.
I squinted into the damp darkness. The rain had let up slightly, and now the street was filled with mist. For a long moment, all I could see was hazy atmosphere.
But then, I saw what Sam was talking about.
The figure.
He was still a couple of blocks away, coming from the direction of downtown Dog Mountain. He was walking slowly, and he appeared to be a man who was in no particular hurry to get anywhere. He was swerving too. At one point, he went too far to his left and stumbled off the sidewalk, nearly losing his footing all together. The briefcase he was holding hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and he dropped down on his knees, collecting the emptied contents.
Mugs let out a sharp yip.
“Is that Phil Monahan?” Sam whispered, glancing over at me.
I squinted again into the fog. The figure stood up and continued his ambling, but a bank of mist suddenly obscured him.
“I can’t tell,” I whispered back. “But it could be.”
We continued to watch.
The bank of mist drifted by, and the figure came back into view. The man was tall and had light hair that was in a state of disarray. The suit he was wearing was wrinkled and looked like it was in dire need of dry-cleaning. He walked with a listless, defeated kind of gait.
The last time I had seen him in person, he was being lifted up by his fellow varsity basketball teammates at a senior pep assembly, celebrating the state victory he’d led them to.
The decade since had taken its toll on Phil Monahan.
“That’s him,” I said. “That’s Mindy’s husband.”
“Okay,” Sam said, shifting in his seat and reaching for the car door handle. “Stay with Mugs. I’ll be right back.”
“No way,” I said, giving him a sharp look. “I’ve been sitting here just as long as you have. I have as much right to talk to Phil as you do.”
Sam stopped opening the door and looked back at me.
“Freddie…” he said, his tone unflinchingly serious. “Let me handle it. You don’t know what kind of state he’s in right now. It’s best if you just stay here.”
I watched as Phil stumbled up the steps to his porch, dropping his keys a couple of times as he did.
“All the more reason that you don’t go by yourself,” I said.
I opened the passenger door. Mugs growled some more and scrambled to get out, but I blocked his path.
“Freddie,” Sam said. “Worst comes to worst, Mindy is missing. And if that’s the case, then there’s going to be an investigation. And I can’t let you write about this and potentially jeopardize our—”
“Is that why you think I’m here tonight?” I said sharply. “Just for the story?”
He let out a short sigh and look
ed away for a second.
“Freddie, that’s not what—”
But it was what he meant, and we both knew it.
And for some reason, that stung.
A lot.
“You think I’m here for the headline,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t believe that you’d think that.”
I sank my teeth into my lower lip as he started to say something to explain.
“Freddie, wait—”
I stepped out into the mist, shutting the door behind me before he finished.
Chapter 22
“All I wanted to do was tell her that… that I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident. You know? No different than backing your car into a telephone pole. I didn’t mean for it to… All I wanted to do was tell her that it wasn’t something I wanted to happen…”
Former high school basketball hero, president of the speech & debate team, and lacrosse superstar Phil Monahan sat in the small, messy dining room with his shoulders hunched over the glass table and his head resting against the palm of his hand. Dirty dishes were strewn about the room and adjoining kitchen, stacked high in some places. Old newspapers and unopened mail littered the table and ground. Some dining room chairs had been overturned and lay splayed out on the wood floor in unnatural positions that made me feel uneasy thinking about how they got that way.
Phil smelled like a distillery. Each word came out warped and slurred, and his voice piqued with emotion whenever he said the word it. Though what it stood for wasn’t clear to anybody in the room yet except Phil himself.
I suddenly felt queasy. The sense of uneasiness that I’d had all night started crawling up the back of my throat.
Phil Monahan looked like a man who had done something, all right.
He had the kind of vacant look that you sometimes saw in the mugshots of criminals who had just been booked for a major crime. Like they themselves couldn’t even believe what had just happened, lost in the fog of shock.
Sam looked over at me. He was clearly very, very concerned. And it wasn’t for Phil.
“Do you know where your wife is, Mr. Monahan?” Sam asked.
Phil looked up. Red, inflamed veins stretched across the whites of his eyes.
“But maybe she just didn’t understand me,” he slurred, following a train of thought that only made sense to him. “Maybe it wasn’t really all my fault. Maybe it’s not all on me. If she had been a little more understanding of my needs. If she’d put me ahead of her students for once, or that damn dog of hers, maybe then it wouldn’t have come to this—”
“Mr. Monahan,” Sam said, the tone of his voice strained as he was obviously losing patience with the man’s vodka-soaked ramblings. “Where’s Mindy?”
“You see, I was just down at the bar for a drink that day. We’d just finished with tax season and were celebrating. And we got to talking and then we… we… it just sort of…”
He looked up at us again with hollow eyes.
I felt my stomach twist into tight knots.
He looked so guilty.
A moment later, Phil Monahan was sobbing uncontrollably.
He started saying something else, but the words came out thick and slurred and incomprehensible.
“Why did you hurt Bogey, Phil?” I said in the softest voice I could muster.
Phil stopped sobbing, looking at me in confusion.
“What?”
“Humphrey Bogart – Mindy’s dog,” I said. “You hurt him. Why?”
“Huh?” he said, his eyebrows knitting together in a defensive expression. “Why… why would I hurt that dumb dog?”
“Well, someone sure as hell did,” Sam said.
Hearing that seemed to cut through the booze haze that Phil was under. He shook his head and closed his puffy eyes.
“What happened to him?” he said quietly.
“Mindy’s dog was found in a ditch,” Sam said, stepping closer to Phil and leaning over him. “Someone shot Humphrey Bogart.”
Phil rubbed his eyes.
“What? When?”
“This afternoon,” I said.
Phil’s face scrunched up in a strange way. A moment later, he was cradling his head again in his hands.
“Bogey… Bogey, no…”
There were more sobs, more gasping for air, more incomprehensible blubbering.
It was hard to watch Phil fall apart like this. I didn’t know him all that well, but the 18-year-old Phil Monahan that I had known was every teenage girl’s dream. He’d been six feet of lean muscle with a charming smile and brains to boot. The sloppy, drunk, and flabby Phil crying in front of us was practically unrecognizable compared to that kid.
I bit my lower lip. Sam’s expression had softened, and the frustration that had been on his face earlier had transformed into something like compassion.
He knelt down, placing a hand on Phil’s shoulder.
“I’m not here to arrest you, Mr. Monahan,” he said. “I’m here asking that you voluntarily come down to the police station with me tonight and answer a few questions regarding this animal abuse issue and the disappearance of your wife, Mindy.”
Phil looked up, his eyes bulging, fear running through them.
“What? What are you talking about? Where’s Min?”
I looked at Sam. Neither one of us said anything.
“For Pete’s sake! Somebody tell me!” Phil shouted suddenly.
The sober look of panic in Phil’s eyes spoke volumes.
“Mr. Monahan, I think it would be best if we go down to the station now.”
Mindy’s husband started bawling like a school boy.
Chapter 23
I downed the rest of the coffee from my thermos and rubbed my puffy eyes. I tried to fight off an incoming yawn, but the urge was too strong. I let it go, stretching my jaw and feeling my eyes become waterlogged with burnt-out exhaustion.
It was just after 11. I’d just polished off my fourth cup of coffee, and I felt more jittery than a felon before a parole board. I was beat after not getting any sleep the night before, and each hour was dragging by like the earth had suddenly decided to slow down today.
All morning, I’d been fielding calls from Dog Mountain citizens who had read my story about the shot bulldog found out on Lassie Road the afternoon before. Most of the callers were outraged, using me as a sounding board to express their disgust at the individual who could have possibly done such a thing to an innocent pooch. And while I agreed with their sentiments, I had more important things to do than to listen to their never-ending cries of indignation.
Important things, like find out where Bogey’s owner was.
After crying for a while longer in his dining room, Phil Monahan had finally agreed to go into the police station with Sam for a more official setting for the questioning. I, of course, hadn’t been allowed to accompany them or sit in during the interview. And while I knew Sam was just doing his job and doing it correctly, I still felt frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t tell me anything about what Phil had said.
It would have been a breach of departmental regulations.
Which meant that whatever I discovered about Mindy’s disappearance, I’d have to discover on my own.
So after heading home to catch a few hours of shut-eye, I’d come in to work early to get a head start on the day. I thought it was a smart move at the time, but as the hours slowly ticked by, and the exhaustion that a two-hour night of sleep could cause caught up with me, I realized that I was moving at a snail’s pace. And that my thinking wasn’t at its sharpest.
I shut my heavy eyelids for a split second and tried to think of what to do next.
I’d left messages with several of Mindy’s co-workers at the school, including for the student teacher I’d seen the day before, asking them to call me back. But thus far, I’d heard nothing. I’d also called the school district superintendent, leaving a message to see if the district was aware of what was going on and whether or not they could share any information.
“What are you working on, Ms. Wolf?”
The voice was deadpan and humorless.
I opened my eyes, already knowing who was hovering above my desk.
“I’m glad you’re here, Kobritz,” I said, sitting up straighter in my chair. “I was just going to come over there and talk to you.”
The news editor, who looked to be in bad need of a shave, raised his eyebrows and scratched his rough chin.
“Oh?”
I hadn’t told Kobritz about the fact that a local school teacher was most likely missing, and that the dog found in the ditch the day before belonged to her. I’d held back from telling him and writing about it in yesterday’s article because it wasn’t official yet, and out of respect to Mindy. Because as soon as it became official, the media hounds would descend, ripping apart the fabric of her life as they did.
But Kobritz would find out sooner or later. And it was best to get out ahead of the story, if possible.
“It’s something related to the dog they found shot yesterday.”
“Really,” he said, indifferently. “What is it?”
I took in a deep breath. Then I told him about Mindy and the fact that she’d been missing since the school board meeting nearly two days earlier. And about Bogey. And that the police had talked to Phil Monahan the night before in relation to the injured dog and the whereabouts of his wife.
Kobritz’s eyes grew wide as I relayed the information, and he looked about as animated as I’d seen him look since I’d first started working at The Chronicle.
“So you’re saying we’ve got an elementary school teacher missing in Dog Mountain?” he said.
I nodded.
“And that her bulldog was found shot?”
I nodded again.
“And that the husband is a possible suspect?”
Kobritz stroked the shadow on his chin, his eyes dancing with possibilities.
There was nothing like a disappearance or a murder or some other terrible event to get an editor’s blood running.