Where to start? Christensen tried to wring the panic from his voice. He was about to suggest, based on wisps of evidence and growing suspicion, that David Harnett may have tried to kill his wife eight years ago, and that Harnett may have done so to protect himself from Kiger’s own investigators. He was about to suggest, too, that Harnett may have been responsible for murdering a mouthy drug dealer named Vulcan Tidwell.
“You still there?” Kiger asked.
“I’m just … this is really complicated. I’m not sure where to wade into it.”
“Start with Teresa. What’s going on?”
“Teresa,” Christensen repeated. “OK. She’s still focused on things I never expected. Her marriage, specifically.”
“But what’s she saying about DellaVecchio?”
Christensen shook his head. “A non-issue for her at this point.”
The chief laughed, and the sarcastic edge to it was unmistakable. “She might be the only one,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Christensen said.
“You watching TV? Ca-rist. ‘Good Mornin’, Pittsburgh!’ just led with it. You’d think this hearing was Judgment Day itself. So Teresa’s not talking about DellaVecchio.” He laughed again. “Well, got news for ya. Ever’body else in this damned town—”
“Chief,” Christensen interrupted. “I need to tell you something, and I need to tell you now, and the first thing you need to know is that we’ve got two people missing that I’d like to get accounted for.” Christensen knew it was spilling out, but couldn’t stop it. “Brenna’s one of them. Because of the hearing, she decided to stay Downtown at her office overnight. I talked to her about nine-thirty last night, but I’ve been calling her private line for the past hour and all I get is voice mail. She should be there, but I don’t think she is. Or at least she’s not answering, there or on her car phone. With everything that’s happened, I’m worried.”
“OK,” Kiger said. “Who else?”
“David Harnett.”
Christensen waited through a long pause, looking again at the clock—6:12.
“What you mean he’s missing?”
“Teresa called me a little over an hour ago, very upset. Long story short, the memories she’s coming up with all involve David. And now she’s come up with something—something she’s corroborated with an old appointment book, something she trusts—that makes me think he’s involved in this a lot deeper than we ever thought. He might even have played some role in trying to kill her, and he may actually have killed someone else before that.”
There. He’d said it.
“You’re talking about the drug case,” Kiger said.
“Right. There’s a connection, I think. I got this fax—”
Christensen waited. He was sure now it came from Kiger. How would he react? When he didn’t, Christensen continued.
“It’s too complicated to explain right now. But basically, I think she was supposed to be David’s alibi for the night Tidwell was killed.”
“New Year’s Eve, 1991,” Kiger said.
“Exactly. When I put everything together, it looks like she wasn’t even with him. She’s telling me they had a big blowup a few days before. Couple months later he moved out. And not long after that she was called to talk to your IAD guys.”
“That’s the appointment y’all are talking about?”
“For a Monday. Somebody tried to kill her two days before. That’s the sequence of events we should be looking at here. I’m thinking maybe David asked her to lie, and maybe she’d decided not to back him up. The minute she tells your investigators what she knows, David becomes a liar and a murder suspect. He couldn’t let them question her.”
He could hear Kiger’s breathing.
“Teresa was supposed to die, Chief. She didn’t, but she might as well have. Like you said before, she was as good as dead. Her memory of all that was wiped completely clean, along with her memories of a lot of other things. Who was in the best position to realize that? Who was the only person who understood she was no longer a threat? David.”
“But DellaVecchio—”
“The straw man from the start, like Brenna’s been saying,” Christensen said. “Harnett planned for everything, because he knew Milsevic and the other investigators would be all over this one. DellaVecchio was tailor-made. He had a history, and Harnett was very familiar with it. Harnett could have hired somebody to kill Teresa, then had him plant the evidence that led straight to DellaVecchio. He also made damned sure his alibi was solid, Chief.”
“He was—”
“With Milsevic,” Christensen said. “He must have known the lead homicide investigator would get the call on a high-profile case, so he made sure he was with Milsevic when it happened. It was perfect.”
Kiger said nothing for an eternal moment. Then: “One problem. David’s the one worked so hard to help Teresa put it all back together, right? She’d be the first one to tell you that.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying for years,” Christensen said. “He was able to rebuild her past any way he wanted to, or needed to. A suggestion here. A prompt there. Then he waited for those suggestions to come back as ‘memories.’ He took Teresa out of the Tidwell equation at the same time he built your case against DellaVecchio. When she finally testified, she said exactly what he needed her to say. He steered her, and all of you, right to DellaVecchio. And I think maybe he’s doing it again. How hard would it be to imitate DellaVecchio’s voice on the phone, or to dump one of his ashtrays on that roof?”
Kiger cleared his throat. “Lemme get this straight. Y’all are saying what she remembers is mostly what he told her? And what he told her was what he needed her to say?”
“About everything. About DellaVecchio. About the night she was attacked. About the night Tidwell died. Some memories he planted. Some he weeded out. And what she’s struggling with now are conflicts between what he told her happened and the memories she’s starting to recover. They don’t always match up, so for her it becomes a question of trust. Should she trust David, or her own memories?”
“But if that’s the case—” Kiger said, then stopped. Christensen could almost hear the inconsistencies rolling around in the chief’s head. “Tell me sump’n. Why’s she still with somebody she thinks mighta tried to kill her?”
“I can’t answer that,” Christensen said. “When I push her on it, she pushes back. She says she considered the possibility that David attacked her, even did some checking on her own. Bottom line, she just doesn’t believe he could have, or would have, done it.”
A skeptical silence.
“Think about it,” Christensen said. “Forget the asshole who was driving her nuts with his affairs and indifference before the attack. Think about the man she knows, the one who’s been with her since the attack. The husband she knows is devoted to her. He’s helped give her back something she lost. He was there for her when she needed him most. How could she possibly believe he would try to kill her? It just wouldn’t compute.”
“Well, somebody attacked her. So you ain’t really moved us much from where we started.”
“I’d bet David hired someone. The point is, he’s the one with a reason to kill her. That’s the main thing you people look at, isn’t it? Motive?”
“You’re saying he carried on that devoted-husband charade? For eight years?”
“Maybe it’s not a charade,” Christensen said. “I’m not convinced it is.” Another glance at the clock—6:15.
“Then why—”
“Could be a couple different things. Self-preservation, maybe. He needed access to her to control her memories, and the only way to maintain access was to be the devoted husband, or at least play the role. Or maybe it’s just guilt. Say all this is true, th
at he tried to kill her, or have her killed. The attempt failed, but in the process she lost the memories he considered a threat. There was a relationship there, remember, even as flawed as it was. Maybe he felt like he owed her because he’d hurt her so bad. Guilt. Or maybe it was just easier for him to love someone he knew couldn’t hurt him.”
Christensen’s mind skipped back to an earlier conversation with Teresa, the one about her pubic hair and the reason she was growing it back. “Wait. There’s something else that came up. Teresa’s convinced that whoever attacked her knew her pretty well.” He cleared his throat, deciding how much to say. “He knew personal things, stuff only someone who knew her intimately, and before the attack, would have known.”
“David again?” Kiger said.
“Maybe. Probably. But remember, the marriage was falling apart. She told me herself she was no saint. She was seeing somebody, too. But I have no idea who—”
The possibility must have struck them both at the same time.
“Can you find out?” the chief said.
“She won’t tell me until she’s ready, but I can try.”
“Do that.”
The microwave’s blue digits blinked again—6:18. “Damn,” Christensen said. “I’ve got to try Brenna again. The more I think about this … You have any idea where Harnett might have gone early this morning? Teresa said he got a call and left their house a couple hours ago.”
“You’re thinking what?”
“I’m thinking—hell. In about three hours Brenna’s going into court to prove that somebody other than Carmen DellaVecchio tried to kill Teresa. If she’s good—and Brenna’s very good—she’ll do more than that. She’ll leave so many questions hanging in that courtroom that whoever did it is going to feel the searchlight pass damned close. He’s known this was coming for three weeks now. He’s already tried to kill Brenna once, thinking he can shut the whole thing down if he can just shut her down. Now he’s running out of time, really starting to sweat. Desperate people do desperate things. That’s what I’m thinking.”
Christensen closed his eyes. “I need your help,” he said.
It was a reckless appeal, but straight from his heart. Kiger’s reaction would say a lot, for better or worse.
“Awright,” the chief said. “I’m not saying there’s anything to this theory a yours, understand? But I’ll send somebody over. Tell me where she’s supposed to be.”
Chapter 34
Annie was buried in a mound of down. When Christensen peeled back the comforter he saw she had the tattered remains of Molly’s old nightgown clutched to her chest. Her Silkie. It had comforted her through some rough times, and he was glad she had it now.
He shook her gently. “Wake up, sweet girl. I need to tell you something.”
His daughter sat up, seemingly wide awake. She looked around her room, said something that sounded like “Where’s the stool?” and lay back down, apparently still asleep.
“Annie, sweetheart, wake up. I need your help this morning. I’m putting you in charge, because I have to go.”
She sat up again, looked at the dim daylight outside her bedroom window. “What time is it?”
“Early,” he said, trying hard to look like he was just heading off to work a little sooner than usual. “About six-thirty. I have to go somewhere for a while, and I won’t be able take you guys to school or help you get your breakfast. But I put ice packs and Pizza Lunchables in your lunchboxes. You can add anything else you want. Get Taylor up and help him get his cereal. I already put the milk on the table. Clean up when you’re done, brush your teeth, and get dressed. I already called Mrs. McFalls. She’ll be over as soon as she can to help you and drive you guys to school, but you have to be up when she gets here, OK?”
Annie blinked. How much of that could a sleepy nine-year-old absorb?
“I’m in charge?” she asked.
“It’s a big responsibility. Can you handle all that?”
She nodded. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I just need your help this morning because I have to go somewhere to help out on something. It’s important.”
Annie studied his face. “Where’s Brenna?”
“She stayed down at her work, remember?”
“So where are you going?”
“Annie, I need to explain all this later, OK? Right now I just need to go. It’s no big deal. Everything’s fine. But I need you to make sure you guys get up and get ready for school. You’ll do that for me, right? I’m counting on it.”
“Taylor has to do whatever I say?”
Christensen nodded, reluctantly, knowing he was opening the door for his little dictator to abuse her power. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. You know the morning routine and so does he. Just get everything done, lock up the house with your key, make good choices today, and come straight home on the bus after school. I’ll try to be here when you get back.”
He kissed her warm forehead and savored the sweet strawberry scent of her favorite shampoo, then got up to go.
“Dad?”
He turned, expecting she wanted some clarification about the breadth of her new power. Instead, she looked like a frightened child. He bent to her again and hugged her tight. “Everything’s going to be OK,” he said. “Promise.”
“OK.” She held up her threadbare piece of comforting silk. “Need this?”
He smiled. She was every bit as perceptive as her mother had been. “You keep it. But thanks.”
The streets were quiet, the morning rush still an hour away. Christensen started the Explorer, but reached for his cell phone as he put it in gear. He punched in Kiger’s pager number, then entered the number of his phone. Kiger called back within two minutes, just as Christensen was turning right onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward Oakland and the city beyond.
“Y’all’re right,” the chief said. “She ain’t there.”
Christensen felt as if he’d stepped into a hole, as if he were falling. “Where’s Harnett?”
“We’re tracking that,” Kiger said. “No word yet.”
“Tell me what you found at Brenna’s office.” Christensen tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“My guy talked to the Oxford Centre security people. Looks like she signed in yesterday afternoon. She’s still signed in, but she’s not there. The front-desk guy never saw her leave. Coulda gone out through the parking garage. Somebody’d blocked open one of the entrances down there.”
“What about her car? She’s got a reserved space in the garage. The security people could—”
“Gone,” Kiger said.
Gone.
“Maybe she just went out early for coffee or breakfast,” Christensen said. “They check her office?”
“Slept there least part of the night. My guy says there’s a sofa bed or sump’n, sheets and blankets all rumpled up. Lights were all out. Alarm set for five-thirty, and it went off like it was supposed to. Clock radio was on when they got there. No sign of a struggle or anything like that. The only thing is about the parking spot. We’re checking sump’n there.”
“Checking what?”
“Could be anything, but we wanna look a little closer at it, is all. Just sort of stuck out.”
“What?”
“When she came in yesterday, you know if maybe she was bringing flowers or anything like that?”
Flowers? “I wasn’t home when she left, so she could’ve been. I don’t know. Why?”
“Bringing them down here to a friend or anything? Like a buncha different flowers?”
“Not that I know of.”
Christensen checked his speed. He was rolling down Fifth at almost sixty miles an hour, so he lifted his foot o
ff the accelerator.
“There was a coupla flowers down there, just lying there in the parking spot. Roses. But we don’t know—”
“Wait.” Christensen felt a wave of dread. “One red and one white?”
The light at Bellefield turned from green to yellow. No way Christensen could make it now that he’d lost momentum. He hit the brakes hard and the Explorer jolted to a stop. Through it all, Kiger said nothing. As Christensen sat listening to the blood pound in his ears, the chief finally said, “Wanna tell me how you knew that?”
Goddamn.
“Remember?” Christensen said. “Teresa got two roses before she was attacked. Dagnolo always claimed DellaVecchio sent them as part of that bullshit stalking—”
“Your boy could be AWOL, by the way. Or not. The damned bracelet still ain’t working, and we’re trying to run him down.”
The comment made Christensen pause, but only for a second. “Brenna always thought the flowers were part of the setup, to make it look like DellaVecchio was obsessed with her. Either way, the red-and-white thing is the same. And it’s scary, or at least Teresa thinks so. Red and white. Love and death. That’s how she remembers it now, as a threat.”
Christensen pounded the steering wheel. “Shit! Why didn’t I see it?” He wanted to run the light, but there was too much cross-traffic.
“Awright,” Kiger said. “I’m still home, but I’m gonna go on over—”
“Tracktron!” The thought seared Christensen like a bolt of lightning. “You guys monitor that, right?”
“The stolen car-tracking service?” Kiger asked. “What? Is her car wired?”
“That’d at least tell us something. They’re pretty fast.”
“Usually just a couple minutes. What’s she drive?”
“An Acura Legend, about five years old. Registered in her name.”
“Hang on,” Kiger said, and the line went silent. The Bellefield light turned green. The Explorer lurched forward into the intersection. Christensen was doing forty before he was past Heinz Chapel, fifty as the light turned red at Bigelow Boulevard. The intersection suddenly filled with pedestrians and crossing cars, so he put the car into a sideways skid. It stopped, finally, in the crosswalk in the far right lane. A pedestrian with a familiar face stepped around his front bumper and wagged a finger at him. Jesus. It was Fred Rogers, probably on his way from the WQED studios on Fifth to the PAA for his regular morning swim. My God, Christensen thought, I nearly mowed down Mister Rogers. He mouthed the words “I’m sorry” through the windshield, grateful for the forgiving smile of public television’s most beloved icon.
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