by Harry Dolan
“It was probably kids from the neighborhood.”
“It was certainly childish,” he said. “And whoever did it had an accomplice. A young woman, though I don’t think she was from the neighborhood.”
“Is that so?”
“Charming really. She used my phone to call her father. Only her father’s number turned out to belong to a shop that sells art supplies.”
“That’s odd.”
“There was something familiar about her, but I only realized it after. She reminded me of Detective Waishkey.”
“That’s—”
“—odd, yes.” He drew a breath. “I trust your visit eased your suspicions, and you won’t need to come ’round again.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Of course not. Good night to you, Mr. Loogan.”
We disconnected. I waited a moment on the quiet street, then rolled along to the end of the block and turned south.
Fountain Street took me to Miller, and from there I drove east. A handful of minutes later I came to a stop on Bedford Road at the spot where I’d sat with Lucy in her yellow Beetle only two days before.
Light glowed in the windows of Callie Spencer’s cottage. Some of it spilled out into the driveway and glinted off the hoods of two cars: Callie’s Ford and another I didn’t recognize.
I left the engine running but switched off the headlights. I focused on the window next to Callie’s desk, hoping to catch sight of her.
After a while I shifted my attention to the front door. Dark, rough wood, unpainted. I thought of walking over and knocking on it. Tried to work out what I might say if she let me in.
The door opened. A man passed through. I recognized him from his posture as much as anything else—Callie’s husband, Jay Casterbridge. He walked by the silver Ford and got into the other car, an Audi. Backed it into the street and started toward me. He came as far as the intersection with Arlington Boulevard and swung a left.
I switched on my lights and followed him.
He drove less than two miles. The house where he stopped stood in the middle of a block on a street call Fernwood, under the shelter of old oak trees. It had an American flag hanging from the front porch, and a FOR RENT sign on the lawn with a phone number and the words CASTERBRIDGE REALTY.
He pulled into a driveway that led back to a detached garage. I drove past and parked on the street. The moon shone somewhere, but not under the dark of the oaks. I walked carefully along the uneven sidewalk, slowing as I approached the end of the driveway. Casterbridge’s car sat there empty. I saw a lighted window on the side of the house.
I was about to step into the driveway when I caught a flash of movement farther down the sidewalk. A shadowy figure slipping behind the trunk of a tree.
CHAPTER 41
She waited for me there, as still as if she had grown up out of the grass.
“Are you supposed to be hiding?” I said.
“I haven’t decided.”
“What are you wearing?”
“I don’t think that’s relevant.”
“Levi’s and sandals. Not very senatorial.”
“I’m not a senator yet.”
The jeans were faded. The T-shirt she wore with them had a tear in the collar and the logo of the University of Michigan. I was getting a glimpse of what Callie Spencer must have looked like as a law student in her twenties.
“You followed me,” I said. A brilliant deduction. I could see her silver Ford parked behind her on the street. I’d been so preoccupied with tailing Jay Casterbridge, I hadn’t noticed I had a tail of my own.
“You followed my husband here,” she said. “Why?”
“I’m looking for Lucy Navarro.”
Her tone had been serious up till now, so her laugh came as a surprise.
“You think Jay has her?” she said.
“I should’ve thought of it before. Whoever took Lucy felt threatened by her. She’s been asking questions about the Great Lakes Bank robbery. What was Jay doing seventeen years ago?”
“Law school,” she said, stepping close so she could study my face. “You think Jay was the fifth bank robber?”
“Why not? Floyd Lambeau recruited idealistic students. He took pleasure in the idea that he could corrupt them. I think he would have gotten a kick out of recruiting a senator’s son as a getaway driver.” I waited a beat. “It explains the cover-up too.”
“The cover-up?”
“Your father never gave any description of the driver. Maybe that’s because a United States senator asked him not to.”
She reached up to touch the tear in her collar. “That’s an intriguing theory. Am I in on this plot too, or do I get a pass?”
“I haven’t sorted it all out yet,” I said. “But you should go home.”
“Why?”
I pointed at the house. “I’m going in there. You won’t want to be around.”
That brought another laugh. “I don’t think I can stay away.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Neither am I. If my husband’s holding a reporter captive in there, I think I’d like to know.” She stepped out of her sandals and started walking barefoot along the sidewalk toward the house. I had to hurry to catch up to her.
“Should we burst in,” she said, “or should we look around a little first?”
I started to respond, but she silenced me with a finger raised to her lips. I followed her in the dark, passing the front of the house, pausing for a moment at the edge of the driveway.
There was still just one lighted window on the side of the house, near the back. The curtains were parted slightly, leaving a gap wide enough to see through, if you could get close. You’d need something to stand on though; the window was above eye level.
Callie had come to the same realization. She touched my arm. Pointed to a plastic recycling bin leaning against the side of the garage.
She waited by her husband’s car while I retrieved the bin and set it topdown in the grass beneath the window. I glanced a question at her and she gestured in answer: After you.
A last look around. No one on the street. The house next door seemed deserted.
I took my time planting my left foot on the bin, stepped up, steadied myself.
Through the space between the curtains I saw a kitchen counter. Cabinets in dark wood, stainless-steel dishwasher. Granite countertops. A radio mounted under one of the cabinets. I could hear it faintly through the closed window: the BBC World News on NPR.
Jay Casterbridge stood near the dishwasher. Oxford shirt and gray slacks. He had a woman with him—but not Lucy Navarro. The woman was tall and thin. I could have counted her ribs if I wanted to, because Casterbridge had her blouse off and was making good progress on her bra. He slipped the last hook free and peeled it off—an insubstantial thing, white and plain—and ducked his head to kiss her breasts. His hands moved down her back and underneath the waistband of her skirt. He lifted her off her feet, spun her around, and sat her on the counter.
I’d seen enough. I stepped down soundlessly to the grass. When I looked to Callie Spencer, she wore the kind of carefully composed expression that told me she had a good idea of what I’d seen. I started to shake my head as if that might dissuade her, but she had already put one bare foot up on the bin.
I helped her up and laid a hand on the small of her back to steady her. She needed the support; she had to stand on tiptoe. I waited, listening to her breathing. She stayed up there for a few seconds, long enough to take things in. And long enough for me to realize my mistake. I wasn’t the one she’d been following tonight. That should have been obvious. I’d parked on her street and watched her house, but she would’ve had no reason to know I was there. She had been following her husband.
She braced a hand on my shoulder getting down, said nothing, walked off barefoot along the driveway. I left the recycling bin in the grass and went after her. Back at her car she stepped into her sandals and turned to me. Too dark to read anyth
ing in her eyes. She looked away and rounded the car to the driver’s side. “I’m going home,” she said.
Not quite an invitation, but as close as I was likely to get.
By the time I walked to my car she had disappeared around the block. But I didn’t need to follow her; I knew the way. The moon put in an appearance on Bedford Road, a sliver high over the roof of the cottage. Callie’s Ford sat in the gravel drive.
I rolled east past the cottage and left my car on the street. Admired the neighbors’ manicured lawns in the light of the streetlamps. The same light fell on the vines along the cottage walls, sending curled shadows over the brick. Callie had left the door ajar.
I closed it behind me, loud enough for her to hear. She stood by a leather sofa with her back to me, her head bowed. When I got close she spun around. Lips pressed together, a woman trying not to cry.
I reached for her and she came to me, hid her face against my shoulder. Her hair silky and smelling of strawberries. I touched a palm to the back of her neck and felt the heat of her skin. She got her arms around me and held on with a strength that surprised me.
I lost track of how long we stood like that. I felt the damp of tears against my shoulder. Pain where her arm squeezed against the wound in my side. I moved my palm down between her shoulder blades and rubbed her back through the thin fabric of her T-shirt.
Eventually Callie pulled away and wiped her face. I watched her transformation. She stood straight and lifted her chin. She was locking away whatever vulnerability she had shown me.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said in a dry, empty voice. “I don’t know you. I can’t afford to trust you. If you think I’m going to fall into bed with you, you should think again. I’ve got better judgment than my husband, and more self-control. I’m not some frail little thing who needs to be consoled.”
She crossed her arms defensively. “You put on a good act,” she said. “So very kind. I don’t need your sympathy. I don’t like you. You know something now that can hurt me. I’m sure that makes you very happy. I hate it. If you’ve got any decency at all—and I suppose I’m crazy to think you do—you’ll get out of here and forget all about what just happened.”
She kept her eyes on mine for most of the speech, but at the end she looked away. I wondered which thing I was supposed to forget—our embrace or her husband’s infidelity.
I said, “I’m afraid I didn’t hear a word of that. So if any of it was meant for me, you’ll have to go through it again.”
Her chin dropped a little and I thought I could see her shoulders relax. “I don’t think I will,” she said with a bitter twist of a smile. “Do you want a drink? I’ve got beer or wine. Or I could mix you something.”
“Beer’s fine,” I said.
She took longer than she needed in the kitchen, digging around in the refrigerator, opening and closing cabinet doors. I left her to it, taking a seat on one of the two sofas. She brought my beer in a glass, and another for herself. She drank a sip of it and settled onto the other sofa. I watched her getting comfortable, tucking her right leg beneath her.
“Who is she, the woman?” I said. “Do you know?”
She frowned over the rim of her glass. “I’m not sure I want to tell you.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, leaning back against the cushions.
Another sip of beer and she said, “Julia Trent. She’s his law partner.”
“Did you know it was going on?”
“No. But something usually is, with Jay. That’s why I followed him tonight. He told me he was going for a drive to clear his head.” She tapped a finger against her glass. “Julia Trent. I never suspected her. I’ve always thought she’s sort of a dried-up husk. The last one was at least younger than me, and prettier. That made it easier to take. What are you smiling at?”
“You can’t expect me to let that go by,” I said. “Younger and prettier. I’ll believe the first, if you say so. Not the second.”
“You’re a charmer. But it’s true. Jay’s always had an eye for pretty women. And he doesn’t try very hard to resist. It’s his one vice.”
I took a long drink of beer and set the glass on a side table.
“Are you sure he doesn’t have any others?”
Her brown eyes narrowed. “You’re not still thinking he’s the missing bank robber.”
“I haven’t ruled him out. You said he was in law school at the time.”
“That’s right. Harvard Law. A long way from Sault Sainte Marie.”
“Did you know him then?”
She shook her head. “I met him later.”
“So you can’t tell me where he was on the day of the Great Lakes robbery. When did you meet him?”
“A couple years after the robbery, during one of the senator’s campaigns. My father turned up at a lot of political rallies at the time. He was popular with the police unions. His endorsement was worth something. So the senator asked him to speak at some of his campaign events, and I tagged along. That’s where I met Jay.”
I tilted my head. “And when you married him—what did your father think of that?”
“He thought I was too young. He advised me to wait.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Just the way you would if your daughter was about to marry a bank robber,” she said wryly. “Look, you’re wrong about Jay. I know his faults. They’re not the ones you’re thinking of. He didn’t drive a getaway car for Floyd Lambeau. And if he did, my father wouldn’t have covered it up. Not even as a favor for a senator.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“My father has integrity.”
I reached for my glass and took another drink. I didn’t see any point in arguing with a daughter about her father’s integrity. We watched each other for a while. Her eyes looked guileless, her lips made a pleasant line.
I decided to press my luck. “Let’s talk about Floyd Lambeau,” I said.
Her expression darkened, but only a shade. “What about him?”
“Henry Kormoran said he saw you with Lambeau at the Great Lakes Bank.”
“We’ve been over this—”
“I know. Kormoran claimed he recognized you by your gorgeous smile, but your teeth were crooked back then. I’ve been thinking about that. Memory’s a funny thing. If he thought he remembered seeing you, his mind might have filled in the details. If he got that one detail wrong, well, that doesn’t mean you weren’t there.”
Callie gave me a warm, open look. “Do you honestly think I helped Floyd Lambeau case the Great Lakes Bank?”
I waved the question away. “Alan Beckett asked me the same thing. He was spinning me just like you are.”
“How am I spinning you?”
“Kormoran never claimed that you cased the bank,” I said. “All he said was that he saw you there with Lambeau. Maybe it was a chance encounter. Or maybe Lambeau asked you to meet him. I think the situation would have appealed to him—having the sheriff’s daughter there while he cased the bank. He would have seen the poetry in it.”
She didn’t deny it. Her expression didn’t change. I said, “If that’s the way it was, it puts you in an impossible situation. On the one hand, you did nothing wrong. On the other, you’ve kept quiet for seventeen years about what really happened, and that makes you look guilty. And along comes Lucy Navarro, dredging everything up. That makes her a threat to your political career.”
“If you think I did something to Lucy Navarro—”
I raised a hand to cut her off. “I don’t. But I think Alan Beckett might have.”
“That’s not something I would allow—”
“He would have done it without telling you. He would have kept you out of it.”
I thought I saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes, but I could have imagined it. “No,” she said. “He wouldn’t do that.” I waited for something more, maybe a defense of Beckett’s integrity. I didn’t get it. I watched her rise and knew our talk was at an end.
She led me to the door and I thanked her for the drink and told her good night. She didn’t answer me. She let me get halfway down the walk before she said, “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
I GOT HOME after midnight and found Elizabeth sitting on the floor with the pages of her timeline scattered around her. A Mozart concerto played softly on the stereo. I sat beside her and slipped my arm around her shoulders. She turned to me for a kiss. We took our time about it.
“You taste like beer,” she said when it was done, “and you smell like strawberries.”
“I had a beer with Callie Spencer,” I said. “That’s probably her shampoo you’re smelling.”
The corners of her mouth curled up. “Is that right?”
“I let her cry on my shoulder.”
“Aren’t you gallant. What did she have to cry about?”
“Her husband’s having an affair.” With Mozart in the background, I spent a few minutes going over the details of my night.
When I finished, Elizabeth said, “So now you think Jay Casterbridge is the fifth robber? And he abducted Lucy?”
“Either that or Beckett took her,” I said. “I could go either way.”
Elizabeth stared thoughtfully across the room. “I think you’re wrong about Beckett.”
“I don’t see why. On Wednesday he tried to bribe Lucy to give up her investigation. She rejected his offer. That night, she went missing.”
Elizabeth started collecting the pages of her timeline. “That’s just it,” she said. “It happened too fast. When she rejected him, he had options. He could come back with a better offer. He wouldn’t jump right into a kidnapping. I think it must have been someone else.”
“We’re back to Jay Casterbridge, then,” I said.
She looked unconvinced. “Jay Casterbridge came here Wednesday night, because he’d gone through his wife’s files and found Lark’s letter.”
“Exactly. Lark’s been going after the Great Lakes robbers. If Casterbridge was one of them, he’d have a reason to want Lark caught.”
“Only if Lark knew he was one of them.”
“Maybe Casterbridge wasn’t sure what Lark knew,” I said. “What time did he leave here Wednesday night?”