A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense

by Christine Carbo

  I’m eager to interview Reeve’s boss. Reeve and I talked about my meeting him when we dated, but it never worked out. Reeve always seemed to look up to him, telling me he was the perfect person to work for. “He leaves me alone, lets me get the job done, but never lets me forget the importance of what we’re doing or how vital my work with McKay is.” I was always busy at work or on some pressing case when he’d come to town or when Reeve needed to go to Missoula. Now I’m glad he doesn’t know who I am.

  When I get to Interstate 90, I take the exit ramp into Missoula and head straight to the University of Montana. Classes are in session, so it’s tough for me to find parking, but after circling around a few times, I find an open visitor spot near the University Center. I navigate through bustling students and locate a directory inside the UC and find the environmental sciences department in the College of Humanities and Sciences. It’s in a building called Jeannette Rankin Hall, named after a Montana suffragist, the first woman elected to the U.S. Congress.

  I find the building on the north side of the oval before the clock tower. When I enter, it holds the faint fusty smell of old rotting wood mixed with the heady aroma of whiteboard markers. Even though he’s the director of environmental sciences, given all the recent funding cuts, I’m expecting O’Brien’s office to be a simple room in a hallway, but it’s more than what I anticipate. He’s actually got a bona fide office with a small reception area and an administrative assistant. She tells me that he’s teaching a class but will be back in fifteen minutes and that I’m welcome to wait.

  I take a seat and read some outdoor magazines until my phone vibrates. I see that it’s Herman. I step out in the hallway with its shiny linoleum floor and debate whether to answer as the number flashes on my screen. He’s going to want to know where I am, and I’ll either have to lie or simply tell him the truth. I can hear the voice of a female professor giving a lecture drifting down the hallway from one of the rooms nearby. My conscience gets the best of me and I answer, keeping my voice low in the broad hallway. “Hollywood, what’s up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he says, then sighs audibly. “Ali, I’m not even going to ask where you are and why you’re not in the office because I really don’t want to know.”

  I don’t reply.

  “But,” he continues, “I’m calling you out of courtesy to let you know that I heard the county is going to issue a BOLO on Reeve.”

  “A BOLO?” I say. “What in the hell for?”

  “They’ve been searching for him, checking his cabin, leaving messages, talking to any neighbors, and no one has seen him. They think he’s run off, maybe to Canada.”

  Damn it, I want to scream in the hushed hallway. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I’ve told them over and over, he works in the mountains. That’s where he is.”

  “Apparently he didn’t tell them where he was going even after they asked him to stay put. They’ve located his truck and he hasn’t been back to it in two days. Seems they have another piece of evidence pointing in his direction too.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Don’t know, and quite frankly, even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Truth is, I’m only calling you now because of that sweet daughter of yours . . . That’s the only reason I’m telling you this.”

  “I know. Thank you,” I say.

  “I’m serious. I don’t even want to know where the hell you are right now.”

  “Okay,” I say. I want to feed him a lie so he doesn’t worry, that I’m simply getting a haircut or staying home with Emily because she’s not feeling well, but I don’t. I thank him again for the information and hang up after he says, “Wherever you are, be careful.”

  I slide my phone in my bag and stand in the hall as students begin funneling out of classroom doors and weaving around me. Suddenly I feel old and tired amidst the vitality of the young students. I put my phone away and go back into O’Brien’s office. I’m here now, I think. One thing at a time. I can’t do anything about Reeve being out in the woods, but the idea of a BOLO across all the news agencies makes my stomach turn.

  When Jeff O’Brien steps in, he’s being trailed by two female students. He glances at me, but he’s talking to and smiling at the students and heads straight into his office, the girls following. He leaves the door open, and I can see he’s searching for some textbooks on his shelf. When he finds them, he plucks out two of them and gives them to the girl closest to him. She smiles sweetly, her ponytail long and sleek, swaying slightly as she moves her head while thanking him profusely. They leave, and I step in before the administrative assistant even has a chance to tell him I’m here. I don’t want to waste any more time being timid or polite.

  “Professor,” I say, “my name is Agent Paige. I’d like to speak to you for a moment. I understand you have a break between classes now.” I motion to the assistant to indicate that my information comes from her, but she’s on the phone and not paying attention to us.

  He glances at her, a slight annoyance flickering across his face, then says, “Sure, come on in.”

  I shut the door behind me without asking him if it’s okay. I take a seat before his desk and get comfortable, crossing one ankle over my opposite knee. Even though smoking has been banned on campus for years, the office still holds the faint acrid smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the musty scent of neglected textbooks.

  “I know we spoke on the phone, but I was in town and thought I’d stop by.”

  He nods. He has deep-brown eyes like Reeve’s, and is equally inscrutable.

  “Can you tell me again how you know Anne Marie Johnson?”

  We go through all the same information he’s already given me on the phone: that he knows her only through phone conversations; she’s an acquaintance, someone he’s met at a professional event or two, but can’t recall which ones. I pull a file out of my bag and fish out the Facebook photo I’ve printed, the one with his hands on her shoulders. His face turns slightly red when I show it to him, but he still doesn’t let on that he knows her more intimately than he’s been suggesting. He carefully sets the photo down on his desk and slides it toward me using two pronged fingertips. Then he simply shrugs. Smart, I think. I’d do the same. He knows I can’t prove anything with a pair of hands on a person’s shoulders, so I use the ammo I’ve gathered from Vivian.

  “Professor,” I say, “as you can imagine, in the course of this investigation, we’ve spoken to all of Anne Marie’s closest friends. You’ve been described by them as more than an acquaintance.” I lock eyes with him and wait for a reply.

  He shifts in his chair and glances at his bookshelf as if it’s a window he can peer out of. Then he turns back to me and says, “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not sure what you heard, but I certainly don’t know any of her friends.”

  “Like I said, they know of you, Professor. Because, well, let’s face it, friends talk.”

  He shrugs. “I can’t help it if this Anne Marie woman has mentioned my name to someone.”

  “Let’s cut the crap, shall we, Professor? You and I both know that you knew Anne Marie well. I wouldn’t have come all the way here if I didn’t have evidence that you weren’t exactly truthful with me in our phone conversation. So I suggest you fill me in before this becomes something way bigger than you want it to become.”

  I see him fidget. His face looks pinched, his nostrils flared.

  I wait, my eyes locked on him, until I see him calm a little and his muscles begin to relax, which I take to mean he’s decided either to come clean or to kick me out, and he’s pleased with the decision. But he doesn’t get up and head to the door. Instead he takes a deep breath, then looks back at me and says, “All right. I knew her. I knew her pretty well. We . . .”—he twitches his head to one side as if that is a replacement for the phrase We had an affair—“you know, we—” He flicks his head again.

  “You what, Professor?”

&n
bsp; “We, ah, we had a relationship.” Finally he’s giving in.

  “And did your wife know about this relationship?”

  “No,” he says guiltily, looking down at his hands on his desk. “That’s why I didn’t tell you on the phone. She can’t find out.”

  “Let me ask you this: Where were you this past Wednesday night?”

  “Here in Missoula.”

  “Where in Missoula?”

  “I was with friends playing poker. We get together every other Wednesday and play. We stay up pretty late. I was probably there until two a.m.”

  I study him. He’s looking at me sincerely, pathetically, hoping his wife doesn’t get wind of this, but deep down, I’m wondering if she already has. “And where was your wife?”

  “She was out of town. In Helena for some history tour that she wanted to do.”

  I pull out a piece of paper and slide it to him. “I’m going to need the names of all the guys you played poker with that evening. Names and telephone numbers, please. I’m also going to need your wife’s name and contact information.”

  “But . . .” he says, his eyes like saucers.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to tell her your secret, but I still need to talk with her.”

  “But why? She’ll just wonder why you’re doing that. She’s not stupid.”

  “I’m sure you can understand that we’ll need to confirm what exactly your wife was up to on the night of the murder.”

  “I told you, she was in Helena, not the Flathead.”

  “I’m sure.” I smile politely. I want to say to him: Have you not considered that she’s just as capable of sidestepping the truth as you are, Professor? “And I’m just going to confirm that with her.”

  He continues to scramble. “Maybe I can just give you the name of someone in Helena.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “She was going to meet a friend for the tour. Lizzie McAlister.”

  I jot it down. “Thank you, but I’d prefer to confirm it directly with her.” I stand up and drape my bag over my shoulder to indicate I’m ready to leave. “Otherwise anything I’m told will be considered hearsay.” I point to the piece of paper that he should get busy writing on while I stand and wait.

  O’Brien opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but then he shakes his head in a type of surrender, closes his mouth, and begins to write the names down for me.

  • • •

  Outside O’Brien’s building, the clock tower is framed by a brown hill with a white M shaped by cream-colored stones. A gunmetal sky drapes over the hill, which in New Jersey I would have called a mountain, but now that I’m a Montanan, I call it a hill because it has not quite got the height or the ruggedness we’re used to in the Flathead Valley. The air smells of the coming winter—a cold, wet scent, as I imagine clouds or wet stones might smell. The brisk air feels good on my cheeks, but an urgency courses through me as I walk to my car.

  The thought of the BOLO being issued on Reeve scares me, and I want to go straight back to find him, but my time is better spent in Missoula while I’m here, so I resist the urge. I call him instead, but it goes straight to voicemail, so I know he’s either out of cell range still or he’s turned his phone off. I leave him a message to call me immediately.

  I sit in my car and make phone calls to the names on Jeffrey O’Brien’s list. I get ahold of two of the five guys, both who say are surprised to hear from me and both whose stories about poker on Wednesday night square up. Jeffrey O’Brien was with them, and they played until at least two in the morning. It doesn’t mean they’re not lying or covering for him, but the chances of that are slim. They seemed genuinely surprised to get a phone call from me.

  And that irritates me—not the fact that O’Brien has an alibi for the night Anne Marie Johnson was murdered, but their surprise at my call tells me that Brander and Reynolds haven’t even called these men yet to investigate Jeffrey O’Brien. My suspicions about their tunnel vision loom larger than they already have for the past few days. I leave messages for the other three men to call me, then pull out of the parking lot to go find the O’Briens’ house.

  I find it on one of the blocks by the university. The area is quintessentially collegiate, with the maple and chestnut trees bursting with bright yellow and saffron colors, and the houses are quaint and gentrified. Fallen leaves cling to the edges of the streets and continue to drift down over parked cars lining the avenues. I pass several fraternity and sorority houses, some nicer than others.

  The O’Briens’ house also has a huge chestnut tree out front, and big leaves are spread uncontrollably across their small square lawn, making me feel less guilty about needing to get rid of the much smaller piles I have in my backyard. I wade noisily through the carpeted layers on the sidewalk to their front door. Maybe it’s the news of the BOLO or the fact that I’m skirting work and two hours away from my office, but I feel slightly off-kilter, like I’m inside a child’s kaleidoscope, the colors swirling around me. It’s as if the ordinary has suddenly been twisted into something messy, colorful, and exotic, almost obscene in its showy vibrancy, like a fake cry for help.

  Jessie O’Brien opens the door after I ring the bell. She’s about my height—medium—with strawberry-blond hair and a slight underbite that takes away from her beauty somewhat, but not entirely because her pale and dramatic high cheekbones compensate for it. She is well dressed and that surprises me, given the state of their leaf-filled sidewalk. She has electric-green eyes that remind me of a cat’s, but she smiles politely and looks at me curiously. I explain that I’d like to chat with her about an incident in the Flathead Valley, and she seems baffled. But confusion is an easy emotion to fake because all it requires is a slack stare or a knitted brow. She gives me the first, a wide-eyed surprised look, so I don’t put too much stock in its authenticity, at least not yet.

  When I ask to come in, she says, “Of course,” and leads me to her kitchen, where we sit across an island countertop doubling as a thick butcher block. She offers me something to drink, but I decline. I glance around the kitchen. Again, in spite of the disarray of leaves outside, the kitchen is immaculate, the plants on the counter by the sink well cared for and thriving, the sink empty and clean, and the counters uncluttered and clear of all paperwork or the daily junk mail that seems to overtake mine like weeds. “I won’t take too much of your time, Mrs. O’Brien,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, “you can call me Jessie.” She sits on a stool across from me and waits for me to proceed. Her makeup looks precise and perfect. “You say there’s been some kind of an incident in the Flathead?”

  I get right to it because I’m not feeling very patient, partly because I shouldn’t be in Missoula in the first place and partly because of what Herman told me about the BOLO. “Yes, you may have heard about it on the news. A woman has been murdered.” I watch her reaction closely, but she doesn’t change her wide-eyed expression of confusion, and I wonder if her forehead has been injected with Botox and wouldn’t change expression anyway.

  “Yes,” she says. “I’ve heard about it on the news. Saw it in the paper and on the local news channel. What does that have to do with me?”

  “The woman murdered was a journalist, and she has done some stories involving the university’s environmental sciences department. Perhaps you knew her? Anne Marie Johnson?”

  “Me?” She presses her palm to her chest.

  “Yes, apparently she knew your husband. I thought perhaps you’d have maybe met her too. You know, at a local event or something like that.”

  “No, no, I’ve never heard of the woman.” She still looks confused, but genuinely so, her pale, broad forehead still unmoving. “If I’ve met her before, I don’t remember the name.”

  “Has your husband ever mentioned her?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Has he ever mentioned any reporters covering their work at the university? Say, the golden eagle program or the canine researc
h?”

  “No, no, nothing. But we don’t talk about his work all that much. I mean, just because, well, we’ve been married a long time now. It’s not like we’re in the stage of talking about every detail of our work lives.”

  “And where do you work?” I ask, taking my notepad and a pen out of my bag.

  “I just retired. I worked at Community Medical Center as an X-ray tech for over twenty-five years.” I calculate it in my head, thinking that if she has worked there since her early twenties, she’d be close to fifty or maybe in her early fifties now. I know from my research that her husband is younger—forty-four.

  “And can I ask where you were on Wednesday evening of this past week?”

  Again she presses a palm to the same spot up high on her chest, near the sharp points of each clavicle. “Me?”

  “Yes. Standard procedure to ask everyone we speak to about their whereabouts on that night. It’s nothing to be alarmed by, Mrs. O’Brien.” I make a point to switch from her first name to her last again. A small switch, but it usually signals to the interviewee that I mean business.

  “Jessie.” She catches my switch and corrects me again.

  “Yes, and so where were you?” I ask pleasantly, deliberately not repeating her first name.

  “I was in Helena.”

  “Helena?”

  “Yes, I was there touring the capitol. I’ve always wanted to know more about it. My dad used to be a Montana congressman, but I never even visited. You know, I’ve driven through Helena, but never had a need to stay there.”

  “Did you stay the night?”

  “I did. I stayed at the Marriott. One of those Residence Inns.”

  “And is there anyone there that would be kind enough to verify that for us? Again,” I say, “just standard procedure. Were you meeting someone? A friend?” O’Brien gave me the name Lizzie McAlister.