“You did the best you could with the information you had at the time. Have the police turned up any information about the incoming calls?”
“They aren’t sharing any information with me. Unfortunately, when a woman goes missing, her husband is the most likely suspect. Before they haul me in on some trumped-up charge, give me a chance to get a hold of that cabbie. What do you know about him? Where can I find him?”
“He’s gone missing, too. The last time he was seen was during the day Ellen took a ride in his car. That’s why the matching blood type seems significant. But you must remember, it’s not conclusive. Until DNA results come back, we cannot be sure it’s the same man.”
“It’s a rare blood type, though, isn’t it? And then the cabbie has gone missing? That’s enough evidence for me!”
“I think it’s significant, too. I know this is awful news. That’s why I wanted to tell you in person before I report it in the paper, Erik.”
“And so you could get a few tidbits out of me for your story, too!” Erik’s tone was furious.
“I understand your impulse to blame the messenger of bad news. And I’ll do you the service of admitting that everything you tell me is useful to my work. But if you think my goal is to report a story with a tragic ending, you’re mistaken. There’s tragedy enough here, as you well know. I’d like to make sure there’s a positive outcome, Erik. I know and like your wife and I’m very fond of your daughter. I want to see all of you reunited. In the meantime, I’d like to help you make Veronica’s return to her bedroom a pleasant surprise. I’ve located a wallpaper man who is looking for the Charlotte’s Web–patterned paper and willing to hang it on the holiday weekend for you. He said he will have to get in and measure the room before he can order the paper. Here’s his phone number.”
“I’ll measure it myself and call him. That would save time.”
“Whatever you decide, give him a call soon so you can confirm his availability on the weekend.”
As Liz walked to her car, she noticed the swiftly falling snow had blanketed the macadam and the water-collecting grates in the Environmental Solutions parking lot. Seated in the Tracer, Liz phoned Tom to tell him about this wrinkle in their plans, but had to leave the message on his answering machine. If he accepted the measurements over the phone from Erik, it would be days before he saw the writing on Veronica’s wall.
Passing by the Minuteman Statue on Lexington Green, Liz found herself longing for another cup of coffee so she entered a gingerbread bakery that sported a HOT COFFEE sign in its steamy window. On impulse, Liz purchased a gingerbread man and gingerbread woman festively decorated with raisins, icing, and sprinkles. Her cell phone rang as she carried the bakery box through the snow to her car.
“I’ll be measuring Veronica’s room at noon,” Tom told her.
“How did you manage that? Erik seemed set on doing it himself.”
“I told him the truth. I have to measure and make the calculations myself. Even when customers have already bought paper, I won’t take on a job without measuring first. I bought a point-and-shoot, throwaway camera, too. I can’t guarantee Erik won’t stand over me the whole time I’m there, but I’ll do my best to get a shot for you.”
“Brilliant!”
“Just call me Watson.”
“My dear Watson.”
“That’s okay, too. If I can’t use the camera, I’ll try to draw a copy of whatever’s on the wall. I should be out of there by, say, 12:30. Wanna meet for lunch?”
“Absolutely! But not in Newton. Too much chance we’ll be overheard by Johansson neighbors. And I don’t want to run into Erik and make it clear we’re friends.”
“I have another job in Newton, so I need to stay in the area, Liz.”
Looking at the bakery box, Liz said, “Then how about a picnic in your van? Do you know a place they call the ‘Cove’? It’s in Newton but not in Erik’s neighborhood. I’ll meet you there at around 12:40, and I’ll bring lunch.”
“I know where it is. You’ll see my van in the parking lot.”
Wading through the slushy snow to her trunk, Liz took out a thermos, returned to the gingerbread bakery, and had it filled with hot coffee. Then she walked down the street to a deli and purchased two turkey sandwiches and dill pickle spikes. With an hour and a half to spare before she was set to meet Tom, Liz returned to her car and tried phoning Jan Van Wormer, only to get his voice-mail message again. She also got a voice-mail recording when she phoned Cormac Kinnaird. She left him a message saying she planned to report on the blood information today and turn in the cigarette butts to the police. She asked him to let her know when and where she could pick up the evidence and reminded him she’d have to tell her editor about the story no later than 3:00 p.m., in time for the afternoon news meeting. She also called René DeZona to be certain he was in, have him fetch a copy of his kitchen photo to use with the blood article, and let him know he might have a front pager if he could chase down Kinnaird and get a photo of him before the afternoon was over.
With this accomplished, Liz spent a full fifty-five minutes driving the seven and a half miles from Lexington to the “Cove” in Newton. The trip took her through well-heeled neighborhoods graced with large nineteenth-century homes; into other, more modest residential areas; and past numerous minimalls, still dolled-up with Christmas lights. Cars coming and going from the minimalls added to the traffic, which was already slowed by the heavy snowfall.
Although the lane leading to the “Cove” was poorly plowed, Liz enjoyed negotiating the hilly stretch, which led to a parking lot, playing field, and large park on the banks of the Charles River. Schoolchildren on vacation added color and activity to the wintry scene, as they pulled one another on sleds in the flat floodplain landscape or rolled huge snowballs and stacked them to build snowmen.
Opening one of her sandwiches, Liz took out two carrot sticks she’d seen the sandwich maker pack in the waxed paper. Stepping out of her car, she gave them to a girl who was making a snowman with her friends.
“We’ve got two noses!” the girl crowed, brandishing the carrot sticks to prove her point.
Minutes later, Tom pulled his van up beside the Tracer and led Liz to the back doors. Opening them with a flourish, he took out a hard plastic bucket, turned it upside down to make a step, and led Liz into the van. She saw he’d removed a seat, bundled his wallpapering equipment on the remaining bench seat, lined the compartment with a brightly striped Mexican blanket, and set up two more overturned plastic buckets with a board across them as a mini-table. The Beatles tune “Paperback Writer” was playing on his radio.
“You provide the picnic, I provide the picnic spot,” he smiled.
Sitting beside Tom with her legs bent to one side, Liz fell into him as she tried to give him a hug. A few minutes of snuggling ensued before the two, with much steamier windows surrounding them, sat up, unwrapped their sandwiches, and poured out coffee.
“I’ve seen all kinds of things written or drawn on walls underneath wallpaper,” Tom began. “Lots of dates with names of wallpapering crews—some cute messages, too. I remember one where some girl wrote, ‘Finally, I’m getting new wallpaper for my room.’ It’s common to see kids’ names and ages in kids’ rooms. Less often, I see a drawing obviously done by a kid. But until I saw the drawing in Veronica’s room, I’ve never seen anything upsetting on a stripped wall.”
“What is in the drawing?”
“It’s a drawing of a girl with long hair and her father, flying a kite. I know that, because it says ‘DADDY’ under the man. But—I almost hate to tell you this—the man has a big penis sticking out from his front.”
“Are you sure?”
“I took a picture, so you can see it for yourself.”
“Can you draw it for me?”
“I tried to copy it.” Tom took a much-folded piece of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the makeshift table.
“Oh, Tom! I’ll have to see the photo to be sure, but I think the th
ing you think looks like a penis is actually a picture of Erik’s tie.”
“What makes you think that? Why would it be so huge, and why would it stick out like that?”
“I’ve just come from Erik’s office. He has a family portrait taped up, drawn some years ago by Veronica. I couldn’t help noticing Veronica drew her dad wearing a huge purple tie. She drew her mother holding an oversized pocketbook, too.” Liz scrutinized Tom’s drawing. “See the kite in this drawing? Maybe she’s remembering an outing with her dad on a windy day. The tie blew around in the wind.”
Tom looked doubtful. “For Veronica’s sake, I hope that’s true. But I wouldn’t count on it. What kind of guy takes his kid out kite flying dressed in a business suit?”
“I don’t know,” Liz admitted. “But I do know it’s all too easy to vilify the husband when a wife goes missing.”
“I think you’d better not get too attached to this family, Liz. You might be disappointed in them.”
Liz poured more coffee and opened the bakery box. As she placed the gingerbread man and woman on napkins, she noticed how huge the raisin buttons were in proportion to their icing outfits. But she didn’t point this out to Tom. Finishing off the cookies, the two sat side-by-side in silence. Inside the steamy vehicle, the homey blend of gingerbread and coffee fragrances made a sharp contrast with their worries about the Johansson family.
Chapter 20
After the gingerbread was consumed, Tom took Liz’s hand and led her back to her car. As he gave her a hug, Liz realized he was never the first to end an embrace. When they broke apart, he added his drawing to a plastic bag containing the point-and-shoot camera and handed the bag to Liz. Taking it, Liz gave Tom a kiss and made sure she was the last to end it before getting into her car.
Thankful the snowfall was less intense, Liz wound her car through deep snow to the well-plowed Massachusetts Turnpike. Her route from Newton to Boston took her past her own little house. The winds of the snowstorm had formed drifts around it. They had also given the billboard—which read, “Maksoud Motors: We always go the extra mile!”—a frosty whitewash. Liz remembered Tom would be changing the billboard’s advertisement soon, since Old Man Maksoud had hired the space for end-of-year car sales only. It was only a few days until January 1st.
As was usual during a daytime snowstorm, the Banner’s parking lot was a mess. It was nearly impossible for a plow to work there with so many employees’ cars to maneuver around. Snow spilled into Liz’s boots as she walked from her car to the building. Inside, she shook off her coat and went straight to the photo department. René’s broad smile told her he’d snapped Kinnaird and was eager for the front-page placement of that photo.
“The doctor says he’ll call you around 4:40,” René said taking the point-and-shoot camera Liz handed him. “These things are a bitch to take apart,” he said, “but I’ll do my best. I’m on overtime in ten minutes. Will I be able to claim the overtime, or am I doing you a favor?”
“Um hm,” Liz said, looking into the plastic bag the camera had been in. She saw it contained Tom’s drawing and an airmail letter addressed to Ellen Johansson, postmarked from Heathrow Airport, London, December 18.
“What do you mean by ‘um hm’, Liz? Which is it, pictures for a story that will run or another of your speculative ventures?”
“It’ll run,” Liz said, listening to the radio that was always turned on in the photo department.
“World reporter Mick Lichen and Erik Johansson of Newton were both arrested after allegedly assaulting one another at the latter’s home today,” the announcer said. “According to jogger Sy Eliot, who witnessed the incident, Johansson shook a ladder Lichen was standing on when he discovered the reporter peeking into his daughter’s bedroom. The reporter fell to the ground, breaking his left leg in the process. But that didn’t stop Lichen from striking out at Johansson. According to Eliot, Lichen wrapped his arms around Johansson’s leg, causing him to fall to the ground. Erik Johansson is the husband of Ellen Johansson, the librarian who went missing from her Newton home December 18. The incident raises the question of how far a reporter may go to get his story. Even before he dragged Johansson to the ground, was Mick Lichen a law-breaking trespasser and voyeur, or was he a professional going the extra mile to get a job done? For analysis, tune in tonight at ten to WLTR’s Letter of the Law program.”
Certain the World would report on what Lichen saw, Liz knew she had two stories on her hands, and it wasn’t even an official day at work for her. Looking at the clock, she decided to postpone conferring with Dermott McCann. If she told him about the blood types and the drawing on Veronica’s wall, he would surely put another reporter on one of the stories. She wanted them both. Not only that, but she was the only one who had a hope of speaking with Veronica herself to find out about the kite-flying episode. With the news meeting that would decide what stories would be given precedence in the paper just two and a half hours away, Liz decided to take a chance on covering both. Heading down the ink-stained hallway to her car, she phoned Olga Swenson and told her she wanted to see her in advance of reporting some important news. Naturally agitated after learning of her son-in-law’s arrest, the older woman nonetheless consented to see Liz at her Wellesley home and gave her driving directions to the place.
Back in the Tracer, Liz headed west on the Massachusetts Turnpike, listening to news radio as she drove. The back of her billboard was still lit with “MERRY XMAS LIZ” spelled out in lights. Allowing herself a fleeting smile, she listened carefully as the radio announcer reported more breaking news in the Johansson case.
“‘We have evidence two people were injured in Ellen Johansson’s kitchen,’ Newton police chief Anthony Warner told WLTR-News today. Two days after the Newton librarian and mother of one went missing, leaving bloodstained cookie-making ingredients on her kitchen counter, police confirmed the blood belonged to the missing woman herself. Now, Warner revealed, analysis of swabs taken from the kitchen floor area indicates another, unknown person was also injured in that kitchen.”
“Shit!” Liz exclaimed, thinking she’d lost her scoop. But then she realized WLTR did not have the whole story. Only she and Kinnaird knew the probable identity of the second injured party. She had to believe the doctor would not share his information until she reported it and turned in the cigarette butts to the police. Still, the timing of the WLTR report was a disaster in the making for her. As soon as she got off the turnpike onto Route 16, she pulled over and phoned the city desk.
“I know who the unidentified bleeder may be,” she told Dermott McCann without preamble.
“Then where the hell are you? I realize it’s your day off, Higgins, but were you waiting to be back on the clock tomorrow to tell me?”
“What do you think?” Liz shot back. “Ask DeZona if you want proof I’ve been on this all day.”
“Since when do you report to DeZona?”
“Look, Dermott, I don’t have time to argue with you. Just trust me on this one. While I verify one more piece of information, save me a four-inch front page story with a twenty-two-inch jump and a front page teaser for a ten-inch piece on Page Three.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me . . .”
“Liz Higgins, star reporter, if you want to know. I’ll see you in about an hour and a half.”
Liz pushed the button to cut the call on her cell phone and drove on to the Swenson residence. Thanking Providence, she caught sight of Veronica playing in the yard before she reached the house. Turning off her headlights and parking her car out of view of the house, she approached the child on foot.
When she saw Liz, Veronica flew to the reporter. “Did you do it? Did you find my mommy?” she asked.
“Not yet, Veronica, but once again, you can be a big help.”
“I can?”
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t you need your detective pad?”
“I’ve got it right here,” Liz said, looking around as she pulled the notebook from her bag. �
�Oh, Veronica. I see you’ve made a super snow fort. It would also make a great private eye office, if you lived in the North Pole.”
Veronica smiled. “Let me show it to you.”
Sitting on a block of snow that served as a chair, Liz took out a pencil and held it poised over a new notebook page. “You should hang a few pictures in your fort, Veronica. Your daddy showed me a great one you drew of your family that he has hanging in his office.”
“That’s a baby picture!” Veronica said disdainfully. “It’s not very good. I drew that when I was little!”
“In first grade?”
“No. That was in kindergarten. I remember because we only got one box of crayons then. I used up my purple crayon before Thanksgiving and I couldn’t have another one.”
“You must like the color purple!”
“Oh yes. It’s my favorite color, still!”
“In that picture your dad has in his office, you drew a purple tie on your daddy.”
“That’s because I love purple and I love my daddy. When I was little, I always used to draw him with a tie. You wanna know why? Because he used to let me pick the tie for him to wear every morning.”
“Every day! Wow! You were such a good help to your dad. Some dads like to wear something different on weekends. Does your daddy usually wear a tie even when he’s not at work?”
“No, Liz. He hardly ever wears a tie when he’s raking leaves or things like that.”
“What about if you do something fun together, like flying a kite? Would he wear his tie then?”
“One time he did wear a tie when we flew my kite. It was my purple kite!”
“Were you in kindergarten then?”
“I don’t know. I remember it was funny, though. My daddy was trying to run with the kite and his tie kept hitting him in the face.”
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