But Barry knew that wasn’t the whole story. Hadn’t IIR members tipped over tombstones in the cemetery? Hadn’t one of them placed phony bombs on the windowsills of two schools?
Chihani discussed responsibility and how in a capitalist system responsibility for wrongdoing is put onto the shoulders of the disenfranchised, whereas true responsibility belongs to the capitalists themselves. However, since the bourgeoisie hope for the crumbs that fall down from the upper classes, they themselves condemn the lower classes with greater ferocity since, if it weren’t for the lower classes, they would be condemned themselves.
“The bourgeoisie yearn to enter the upper classes,” said Chihani, “just as devout Christians yearn to enter heaven. It’s the task of the upper classes to keep this yearning alive.”
It was at this point, slightly after nine o’clock, that the doorbell rang.
“It’s Aaron,” said Harriet.
But it wasn’t Aaron. It was Dr. Malloy.
Barry said he looked terrible. His face was haggard, with little trace left of his healthy Irishness. Since they had expected Aaron, they were surprised to see a stranger. Barry realized that he was the only one who recognized Dr. Malloy.
“To what do we owe—” began Chihani, rather formally.
“I’m Allen Malloy. I wanted to see what you all looked like.” He stood by the door and glanced around the room.
“Why did you want to look at us?” asked Chihani.
“I wanted to see your guilty faces,” said Dr. Malloy, raising his voice.
The students stared at the doctor.
“Why are we guilty?” asked Chihani.
The doctor stepped toward Chihani. His face reddened. “Don’t you realize that my daughter is gone?”
Chihani nodded slowly. “As if,” said Barry later, “he was thinking, ‘Aha, so you’re that Malloy.’”
“You have my profoundest sympathies—” replied Chihani.
“Somebody stole my daughter!” shouted Dr. Malloy. “How could you say that this person is more of a victim than Sharon? Only a fool would say that! Only a sadist!”
Barry didn’t know what Dr. Malloy was referring to, but Chihani understood immediately. “I said many things to Mr. Moore and he chose to quote a few of them. But I don’t think you want to engage in a philosophical discussion . . .”
“What I want,” said Malloy in a whisper, “is to see you punished.”
Chihani’s face wrinkled with emotion. “Believe me when I say that no one in this room was involved with your daughter’s disappearance. If there is anything that any of us can do to help find her, then please tell us.”
—
That same Friday evening Sadie was out with Aaron until ten o’clock. When she came home, her father was waiting in the living room.
“I forbid you to have anything to do with Aaron McNeal,” said Franklin. He put his hands in his pant pockets for fear of grabbing her.
“He’s my friend,” said Sadie. Aaron had given her a silver necklace with a silver cocker spaniel and she touched it. She wondered whether to show it to her father, then decided not.
“What do I have to do, lock you in your room? Can’t you see I’m scared something might happen to you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Aaron,” said Sadie.
“Neither of us know that.”
“I know it.”
But Sadie obeyed her father, more or less. I turned out to be the beneficiary since she spent more time with me. She came to my house after school three afternoons a week and on the weekends as well. Yet even this was to cause unfortunate talk.
Twenty-one
Ryan Tavich opened his eyes. It was six o’clock, Monday morning, October 9. Ryan didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was six o’clock. He always woke at six, no matter what time he went to bed. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He always slept on his back. It was what Janice McNeal had called his “coffin position.” It was still dark outside but there was a faint glow in the room from the bathroom light. This was something that embarrassed him slightly, his liking to leave the light on in the bathroom. Ryan found it comforting but he felt that a man of forty-four shouldn’t need such comfort.
Ryan had woken up thinking about Aaron, as if he had been thinking about him unconsciously all night. He also thought of Janice and the characteristics mother and son seemed to share. From next door he heard a motor start up as his neighbor Frank Penrose revved his old Pontiac Cutlass, priming it for the drive to Norwich, where he worked for the drug company. Ryan thought for the hundredth time that if he himself didn’t wake up automatically at six, then Frank Penrose would wake him five minutes later, just as he woke half the block.
Then Ryan began thinking of Arleen Barnes, who lived next door to Paula McNeal. Arleen was about thirty-five. Her husband was a chemist in Norwich. Maybe his name was Harold. They had no children. Arleen worked part-time at the State Farm office on Main Street with Barry Sanders’s mother, although she dressed, thought Ryan, as if she worked for Saks Fifth Avenue. Ryan had never been to Saks Fifth Avenue but he insured his car with State Farm and had a sticker on his bumper that advertised this fact. Staring at the ceiling, Ryan could see a State Farm sticker on the back bumper of Aaron’s Toyota as well.
Ryan began thinking of Arleen’s house, a bungalow with green shingles set back from the road, so that it was behind Paula’s. Aaron probably saw it every time he visited his sister. And he remembered that Arleen had been a friend of Janice’s. After all, for a time they had been next-door neighbors. Ryan tried to remember what Harold Barnes looked like but he could only summon up a balding head and a general idea of plumpness. But Arleen Barnes he could recall easily, a trim woman who liked to wear tailored suits with colorful scarves at the neck. Ryan liked the way she looked. She dressed like someone whose sexual options remained open. And she had a beauty parlor appearance, carefully waved light brown hair. As he thought about it, Ryan could even picture Arleen coming out the front door of Make Waves, the beauty parlor on State Street just around the corner from Main. It was owned by Cookie Evans, a cheerful, energetic woman. Ryan knew this because he sometimes dated her and each occasion exhausted him. No matter how much he hurried, he was always a few steps behind her. And she talked constantly, not directly to him but over her shoulder.
Ryan got out of bed, put on his sweats, then went down to the basement to work with his weights. The cat followed him.
“I got an idea, Chief,” he said.
For half an hour, the weights clanked and banged like old pipes. Then Ryan showered and prepared coffee. As he waited for his coffee, he carefully peeled the skin from a pink grapefruit, making sure he removed every trace of the white inner layer. He cut the grapefruit into sixteen small sections. The cat wound back and forth between his legs until Ryan poured it a saucer of milk. Then he ate his grapefruit, drank his coffee, and read the Syracuse Post Standard. Occasionally he would put down the paper and stare at the ceiling again.
“You’re lucky you’re a cat, Chief,” said Ryan. “Life’s easier for cats. Even romance is easier.”
By seven-thirty Ryan was in his Escort on his way to the beauty parlor. He had no doubt that Cookie would be there; she always opened early. And at that hour it might be empty. Ryan felt squeamish about beauty parlors. They were like women’s clubhouses—the curtains and frosted glass—the places where female confessions were exchanged, which in fact was why Ryan was paying Cookie Evans a visit. He wanted to know what and whom Arleen Barnes talked about.
There were no customers, but Cookie wasn’t alone. Jaime Rose was trimming his beard in the mirror. Jaime worked for Cookie. Born and bred in Aurelius, he started life as James Rozevicz but his fortunes as a hairdresser greatly increased when he changed his name to Jaime Rose. His black hair was brushed back and added an inch or two to his height. Otherwise, he was thin, angular
, and in his mid-thirties. Jaime had learned hairdressing in Albany, though he told everyone, including Cookie, that he had learned it in Los Angeles. For a while he had lived in New York City but he’d been back in Aurelius for about five years. He gave his name the Spanish pronunciation: Hi-me.
Later Jaime told me that Cookie took Ryan into her small office, where they remained for nearly half an hour. Jaime said he had been tempted to listen at the door but was afraid to. Policemen made him nervous. They were too nosy for his taste. Then, shortly before eight o’clock, Ryan came out of the office and left the beauty parlor without looking at Jaime. By that time Jaime was working on Mrs. McAuley’s cowlick.
“What was that all about?” Jaime asked Cookie.
She had begun combing out a wig that a client wanted to pick up later that morning. Cookie was only a little over five feet tall, exactly a foot shorter than Jaime. “You’d be amazed at the scandal that goes on in this town,” she said.
“Nothing in Aurelius,” said Jaime, “could ever amaze me.”
Ryan walked over to the State Farm office on Main Street. He didn’t intend to speak to Arleen Barnes, just to look at her. Ryan told Mrs. Sanders that he had lost his State Farm atlas and would like another, if they had any to spare. Arleen was talking on the phone, laughing, then putting her hand over her mouth. She wore a dark gray dress with a scarf at her neck that had yellow and violet geometrical designs. Her brown hair rose in two waves on either side of her head, then descended to a point at her neck. She wore mascara and eye shadow but not too much, at least in Ryan’s opinion.
Mrs. Sanders handed Ryan the atlas. He glanced again at Arleen, who was still laughing into the phone. Ryan didn’t think she was talking to a customer. Ryan thanked Mrs. Sanders, then drove over to Aurelius College.
Ryan spent twenty minutes with Paula McNeal in the dean’s office, talking to her about Aaron, before going back to City Hall. He was at his desk by nine o’clock. Patty McClosky brought him a cup of coffee, black with double sugar.
“You look pleased with yourself,” she said.
Ryan was surprised. He thought of his face as a blank wall between himself and the world.
“Anything new with Sharon Malloy?” he asked. He knew there wasn’t because otherwise he would have been beeped.
“Captain Percy called to say he’d be here at nine-thirty, but it didn’t sound like anything urgent.”
Ryan sipped his coffee. On his desk was a report from Chuck Hawley describing the weekend observing Dr. Malloy and his wife and detailing Dr. Malloy’s visit to Houari Chihani on Friday evening. The doctor had stayed in the house for fifteen minutes, then driven home. Later Chuck asked Barry Sanders what Malloy had wanted. “He asked if any of us had stolen his daughter,” Barry had said.
Ryan expected that the investigation would soon be turned over to two or three men whose job would be to wait for something to happen. The state police couldn’t afford to keep twenty men on the case. This was what had happened with Janice’s murder, a great flurry of activity that trailed off to nothing. He found himself thinking about Janice’s hands. She had been vain about them, keeping her nails long and painting them, talking about her cuticles. He thought of the hand that had been cut off. The left hand. He couldn’t get over the fact that at this moment the hand was someplace specific: in a ditch, in a field, on a shelf. The last possibility gave him a start.
At nine-thirty, just before Captain Percy arrived, Ryan called the State Farm office and asked to speak to Mrs. Barnes.
“Morning, Arleen, this is Ryan Tavich. You get a coffee break? I was wondering if I could talk to you for about five minutes. I’ll stop by at ten-thirty. See you then.”
—
Ryan took Arleen to Junior’s, then wondered if he was doing the right thing. Arleen was overdressed for Junior’s and didn’t fit with the video machines. Ryan took a table near the rear.
“Would you like a doughnut as well?” he asked Arleen.
“Sure. See if they have cinnamon.”
Ryan got two coffees and four cinnamon doughnuts from the counter and brought them back to the table. Arleen smiled up at him. She had put on fresh lipstick since he had gone to the counter. Ryan couldn’t understand how women could wear lipstick and eat at the same time. It must make everything taste like perfume. Ryan spooned two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. Glancing up, he saw Arleen looking at him expectantly. He felt embarrassed.
“Arleen,” he began, “sometimes as a police officer I’m forced to ask things which in regular circumstances I’d never ask.” He stopped and wondered if he was speaking too loudly. Electronic explosions were coming from the video games. Arleen looked at him with one finger resting on her chin. “What I mean is,” said Ryan, “I don’t want you to take offense at what I’m going to ask, because I’m only asking it as a policeman.”
“You want to know if I’ve been fucking Aaron McNeal?” said Arleen. She smiled quickly, then her face grew serious again.
Ryan glanced around to see if anyone had heard. A farmer, Lou Weber, was eating a jelly doughnut about ten feet away. He wasn’t paying attention to anything except his doughnut. “As a matter of fact,” said Ryan, “that’s just what I wanted to know.”
“Well, I have,” said Arleen, “or I was. I haven’t heard from him for over a week.”
Ryan picked up a cinnamon doughnut, then set it back on the plate. “Was he with you on the day Sharon disappeared?”
“All afternoon and night.” Arleen straightened the scarf at her neck. “Harold had to stay in Norwich and he called in the early afternoon to say so. I called Aaron and he was over at my place by two o’clock. He left his car in his sister’s driveway. We had a wonderful time. When Harold got back the next day around five, I had the house put back together again.”
Ryan tried to imagine the extent of their activities. He guessed that if he wanted to he could probably visit Arleen himself. He blushed. “How’d you know I wanted to ask about that?”
“Because Aaron said you wanted to know where he’d been. He was afraid of Harold finding out. My feeling is that if Harold finds out, then that’s because he should find out. It might do him some good. You know, make him value what he’s got.”
Ryan started to comment, then thought better of it. Instead he asked, “Did Aaron say anything else about me?”
“He said you were one of the men who had been involved with his mother. Of course, I knew that already.”
“He talked about Janice?”
“Sure. Janice and I were good friends, but I certainly have no idea who killed her. Aaron wanted to know who she went out with. I gave him some names, all I could remember. Maybe ten men. Sometimes Janice and I went out together and made a foursome. You know, on the sly.”
Ryan thought of Aaron and Arleen Barnes lying in bed and talking about Janice’s lovers. But maybe they hadn’t had sex in bed. Maybe Aaron was like his mother. For Janice the bed was just one of many options. Ryan shook his head to clear it of memories. “You want any of those doughnuts?” he asked.
“I changed my mind,” said Arleen. “I need to slim down.”
Ryan took some napkins and wrapped the four doughnuts in two packages. He put the packages into his side pockets, one on the left, one on the right. “I’ll keep them for my lunch,” he said.
Ten minutes later, as Ryan drove to Aaron’s apartment, he guessed it was possible that Arleen was lying, but as he later told Franklin, he didn’t see why she’d bother. He was a little excited by Arleen and thought about calling her sometime, though he knew he wouldn’t. He had no feelings about her husband, but he disliked the idea of doing what he shouldn’t in another man’s bed, mostly because he himself had been jealous that Janice was seeing other men when she was seeing him.
The Friends of Sharon Malloy had rented a storefront on Main Street, which Ryan drove past on his way to Aaron’s. It had
a big picture of Sharon in the window. A number of cars were parked in front. Then the door opened and Hark Powers came out with another man. Ryan was surprised to see him, surprised that Hark would have cared about Sharon Malloy one way or another. Hark was grinning and that, too, surprised Ryan, that there should be anything in the storefront that Hark would find funny.
Ryan parked at Aaron’s apartment complex, locked his car, and went inside. He knocked, then knocked again. After a moment, Aaron opened the door. He wore a robe and slippers. His naked shins were thin and almost hairless. His long hair hung down over his shoulders. He stood back to let Ryan enter.
“You’ve caught me in my work clothes,” said Aaron.
Ryan wondered if he meant something sexual, then he remembered that Aaron worked at home.
“You were with Arleen Barnes on the eighteenth,” said Ryan.
“She told you?”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“It was police business and it got you into trouble.”
“What do I care about police business?” Aaron took a pack of Pall Malls, tapped out a cigarette, and lit it. The toilet flushed. With surprise Ryan realized that someone else was there.
“A guest,” said Aaron.
Ryan started to comment about the guest, then said, “By not telling us, you were obstructing a police investigation.”
“Your investigation doesn’t matter to me.”
“Don’t you care about Sharon Malloy?”
“To care about her and to care about the police are two different things. You’re not going to find who did it, just like you didn’t find out who killed my mother. By now Sharon’s probably dead. Your job is to protect property; I don’t believe in property.”
Ryan glanced at the books and furniture. He wondered if Aaron would mind if someone took it all away.
The Church of Dead Girls Page 18