While the girl paid, I lowered myself into one of the massage chairs and turned it on. Oh Lordy. One of these would definitely be in my letter to Santa this year. I kicked off my shoes.
“Well, you look happy,” said Lisa, as she dropped into the chair next to mine. “What’s up?”
I gave her an abbreviated explanation about the conversation I’d had with Matt and the subsequent talk with Mike at the café. I also told her I was moving back into my apartment now that Harley was gone. I was alone here, or I was alone there. What was the difference?
“No wonder that chair feels good – you’ve had a crazy day.” She reached for the remote and hit the heat button on my chair. “Want to have dinner tonight?”
I shook my head. “Jack’s coming over after work. I can’t wait to tell him all of this.”
“Seems like I hardly see you anymore since Hunky Man entered the picture! I’m glad for you. As for me, I’m taking this weekend off,” she said. “A much needed R&R. I’ll be back on Monday. As long as you’re back in your apartment, will you keep an eye out for me?”
“Sure. And good for you for taking a break. You deserve it.” As much as I hated to leave the vibrating chair, I had to pick up my dinner order and head upstairs. “Relax this weekend,” I said, “and try to forgive yourself for what you did to that poor girl who just left here.”
“It’s all the rage,” she laughed, as she twisted her door key off its ring and handed it to me. “Hang on to this just in case.”
“Well, don’t ever try that color on me,” I said, “or that cut.” I left her shaking her head at my lack of hair fashion savvy.
My landlord handed me my order and I asked if he’d mind putting deadbolts on my doors.
“Sure thing, Aud,” he said, “something up?”
“I’d just feel more secure.”
“I’ll put it on the top of my list,” he said. “You have a good night.”
Upstairs, I lit a stick of Frankincense and flopped on the sofa, needing to loosen up before Jack arrived. I was happy to be home, and looked forward to sleeping in my own bed. There were only so many nights I could take tossing around on that cot, like a kid at summer camp.
I revisited my talk with Mike and smiled thinking about how Jack would react to the news. I was beginning to think he was right. Danny Stearns didn’t know where I was. He had to be busy staying ahead of the law’s long arm. Flying under the radar. Hiding in the weeds.
By the time Jack arrived, I was ravenous. Over dinner, I filled him in on everything, but spent the most time on my conversation with Mike. “That’s great,” he said. “I’ll have Matt talk to him again. This is a big deal, Audrey, not to be the last one to see Tony. A very big deal. He’ll send an officer to Mike to get a description of the guy.”
“A sketch artist.”
“We don’t have an actual artist on staff; it’s done with a computer program now. Any officer can do it. It’s just a matter of mixing and matching different shapes of facial features.”
“And this will get Matt off my back?”
“He’d have no reason to follow up with you. You have no motive, and now you weren’t even the last one to see Tony, so there’s no case to be made.”
My cell phone rang and I recognized the number as Sean Finnegan’s. “Sean?” I asked, “Have you heard something?”
“No. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I’m flying in tomorrow. I want to talk to the investigators on Ferdy’s case, and I want to do it face-to-face. I don’t like asking people questions on the phone when I can’t see their eyes. Are you going to be around? Maybe we could meet for lunch?”
“Sure. Absolutely. Do you need me to pick you up at the airport?”
“No, I’ll rent a car. Can we meet at that restaurant – the one you live above?”
“Sure. I can meet you there around 11:30, before the crowd gets bad. Will that work?”
“Great. See you then, Audrey. I’m hoping for some good news. Even one lead. Something.”
I turned to Jack. “You heard.”
“Was he summoned? Or is he coming on his own?”
“No one called him – he just wants some answers. I feel so bad for him. I mean, how does someone just vanish into thin air like that?”
“It happens.”
My phone rang again. What now? I did not recognize the number. “Out of town,” I said.
“What’s the area code?” Jack asked.
“585”
“Rochester.”
I fought to keep down what little I had eaten. “Hello?”
“Audrey Dory?” a deep voice asked.
“Yes?”
“This is officer Donaldson, Rochester PD. I need to talk to you about Danny Stearns. I understand you can place him in Rochester the day the bank was robbed.”
“Yes…but,”
“I’d like to do it tomorrow. Is 10 a.m. good for you?”
What was I going to do, say no? “I guess so, sure.” I gave him my address and directions.
I hung up and looked at Jack, who had poured us decaf while I was on the phone. He put two mugs on the table and took our plates to the sink. “So?”
“So it was the Rochester police department. They want to talk to me about Danny Stearns.”
“Of course they do. When?”
“Tomorrow. Should I be nervous?”
“Why would you be?”
“An officer’s coming here; do you think he’ll be in an unmarked car?”
“Why,” he laughed. “Are you worried about what your neighbors will say?”
“If he is in an unmarked car, how will I know he’s a real cop?”
“He’ll have a badge.”
“You can buy those on-line. What if Danny Stearns sends someone?”
“Audrey! For Christ’s sake! How would Stearns know you’re expecting a car tomorrow morning? You have to stop imagining these whacked-out scenarios!”
Dr. Steele had said something similar to me, but in kinder terms. “I know I obsess, Jack – it’s a symptom of my disorder, and I can’t stop just because you want me to. It doesn’t work like that!”
“Take a pill then – really. If they’re supposed to help, take one for God’s sake.” He handed me one of the mugs. “Go get one. Take it with this.”
I went to get a pill, recognizing the weariness in his voice. I’d heard that tone before, and it was not something I wanted to hear from Jack. I didn’t want to lose him, yet I knew it was only a matter of time before he would get sick of my histrionics; only so long he would be able to watch me fear things I thought were worth fearing, but in his eyes were unsubstantiated. It had happened before.
There was Luke in my sophomore year of college: Look, Audrey, you’re great. I thought we had a shot, but the truth is, I just can’t put up with your crap any more.
After that was Rob in my junior year: What the hell’s wrong with you? I’ve hung in there for almost a year, but shit Audrey – life is just too short.
Then there was Eddie, the love of my life during my senior year. I’d ended things two months after we’d become engaged, because I realized I just couldn’t put him through a lifetime of me. He was a wonderful guy. He’d calmed me when I needed it, and made excuses for me when I couldn’t be calmed. Every day he went before me, paving the way, making sure I would experience as little stress as possible. He did it willingly. But I couldn’t have watched him do it forever. It was too much to ask any man to be the husband – no, the caretaker – of someone like me. Eddie was talented, and smart, and people loved him. He needed a life free of me, so he could pursue his own dreams. I would not only have held him back, I would have ruined him. I’d had no family to approve or disapprove of my decision to end things with him, but his family had been ecstatic over the cancelled engagement. I believed to this day I abandoned Eddie because I’d loved him so much.
I looked at Jack. “Want to stay here with me tonight?”
“Absolutely. But I should leave before
Rochester gets here in the morning.”
“Oh, then you’d better go right to sleep. No fooling around.”
He unbuttoned his shirt. “Let’s go to bed and see how that works out.”
The deadbolts hadn’t been installed yet, but not wanting another display of insecurity in front of Jack, I fought the urge to wedge a chair under each door. After all, I had 9-1-1 right here.
Still, dreams pursued me the whole night through. I was next door, sure that something was amiss at the salon in Lisa’s absence. I trudged along, carrying a key as long as my arm and as heavy as a brick, ready to unlock the door and take care of whatever might be wrong. Seeing nothing unusual on the main floor, I left the huge key on the reception desk and went to check the basement.
The darkness was as absolute as it had been the day Lisa and I had descended the rickety stairs. It smelled old, felt damp, and I recoiled as a spider web brushed my face and got caught up in my hair. As my foot hit the rough dirt floor, I reached out one arm and extended my fingers, searching for the chain to the light, trying to remember where it was. But to my horror, when I found the chain, someone else’s hand was already wrapped around it. I turned to scramble up the stairs, but whoever was down there with me, grabbed my ankle and dragged me back. I awoke, clutching my throat, unable to scream; the feeling of that hand on my ankle so real, I yanked back the covers to look.
Jack slept, unaware of my middle-of-the-night trauma. I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water, and not knowing whether to take a sleeping pill or a happy pill, I took one of each.
Chapter 16
Jack kissed me awake around 8 a.m., and I struggled to pull myself out of what felt like a coma. “I made coffee,” he said. “You were really out, so I let you sleep. But Rochester’s going to be here at 10, so you’d better hit the shower.”
“Yes sir,” I answered. “Are you always this pushy?”
He shrugged. “I have to get home and pretty myself up for work.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, okay? Call me when it’s over.”
“Call you at work?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I left my number on the kitchen table. If I’m busy, I just won’t answer. But you can leave a message.”
I hated being left to meet with the detective by myself, afraid that his questions and my answers were going to poison the air in my little dwelling, my sanctuary. Just the thought of law enforcement traveling from another city to talk to me about Danny Stearns, whose image wouldn’t leave me, made me nauseous.
I went to my computer, signed on, and Googled the Rochester bank robbery. Several newspaper articles, photos of the bank, and videos of interviews appeared as choices, and I clicked on the first one.
About halfway through the article, I learned that police had interviewed all of the bank’s employees, whether they’d been at work the day of the robbery or not. Because of the unusually large amount of money stolen, an inside connection was originally suspected. But after questioning the bank employees, that theory was dropped; the robber had simply chosen a day when a big haul was available.
An inside job, I thought. I wondered why the police dismissed that theory so quickly. I glanced at an old group photo of some of the bank’s employees, who had been herded together in front of a police officer for a PR story several years before the robbery. The caption read, Tellers at the National Bank of Rochester receive robbery training from the local police department. This type of training, according to the story, occurred twice a year, particularly around holidays, when robberies were apt to increase.
At 10 sharp, Officer Donaldson knocked on my door. I offered him coffee, which he declined, and he stood for a moment just inside the door gazing around the room. I waited for him to sniff the air and ask if I’d been smoking pot.
“Lived here long?” he asked, instead.
“For years,” I said. “It’s pretty small, but I don’t need a lot of room. It’s just me.”
“Can we sit?”
“Oh, of course, sorry.” I indicated the sofa with a Vanna White wave of my hand.
“So let’s go back about ten years,” he said. “You were living in Rochester at that time?”
“I had just graduated from college.”
“Exactly where were you when you saw Danny Stearns?”
“On Franklin Street, waiting for a taxi. I was going back to my dorm to pick up my things and go to the airport to come home.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Nazareth.”
“What did you study?”
“Marketing Management. Excuse me, but I thought you wanted to talk about Danny Stearns.”
“Just trying to get a clear picture. What brought you to Franklin Street that day?”
“An appointment.”
“Business?”
“Personal.”
“What time of day was this?”
“Around 10 a.m. I guess.”
“So walk me through it,” he said. “You were waiting for a cab…”
“Yes, and a man ran around the corner and slammed into me.”
“Danny Stearns?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know his name at the time.”
“When did you learn his name?”
“When it was on the news recently. There was a story about the case being reopened and they showed a picture of him.”
“And you recognized him?”
“Yes. I’ll never forget his face. His eyes in particular.”
“So you got a good look at him?”
“I did. He grabbed my shoulders when he bumped into me and he stared at me for a couple of seconds.”
“Then what?”
“He shoved me against the building and ran. Police cars came screeching around the corner right after that.”
“Now this ski mask. You think it was his?”
“He dropped it when we collided. I picked it up.”
“And kept it all these years?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you take it to the police?”
“For one thing,” I said, “I didn’t know a bank had been robbed.”
“It didn’t seem strange?” he asked. “A guy runs around the corner, drops a ski mask, and police cars head in the same direction?”
“I just wanted to go home.”
“Why did you keep the mask?”
“I couldn’t let go of it at the time. I was upset at the whole incident and I just couldn’t let go of it.”
“I never heard of that happening. You couldn’t let it go. Why would that be?”
I took a deep breath. “I have an anxiety disorder. I don’t know, maybe that’s why. I couldn’t let it go; my hand wouldn’t open. My taxi came and I got in. That’s it.”
He considered that for a moment. “Did this man have a weapon with him?”
“Not that I saw.”
“No gun, no knife, nothing?”
I shook my head. “That’s really all I can tell you.”
“The ski mask has been sent to a lab,” he said. “Hopefully some of his hair, or dried sweat, or saliva will be in it. They’ll run any DNA they find through the data base to try and get a match, but as far as we can tell, Stearns has no prior arrests, so it’s a long shot that there’ll be a match. So you see, Ms. Dory, without you, Mr. Stearns most likely won’t even be arrested, assuming of course, he’s found. And if they do find him, his lawyer will say that the suspect could have worn the ski mask at any point in his life, not necessarily on the day the bank was robbed, rendering any DNA of his inside of it, useless to the investigation. Only you can put the mask and the man together in Rochester on that day.”
I pictured one of the old wartime posters, with Uncle Sam pointing at me and exclaiming, I want you (to ID Danny Stearns!) “I get it.”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“I couldn’t even tell you what I was wearing that day.”
“But you remember his face
and his eyes 100%. No doubt at all.”
“I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“Okay then,” he said, and he stood up and looked out my front window. “I’ll get back to you if I need anything else. In the meantime, be real careful. You’re an eye witness. Nobody knows that yet…”
“Except Danny Stearns,” I cut in. “He knows. He saw me.”
“Okay, well, that’s true, and there may come a time when you’ll need to be put into protective custody. But not yet.” We said goodbye, and he left.
I called Jack and left a message, asking if he would have dinner with me and assuring him I was fine after my interview with Officer Donaldson, even though I was anything but fine. The interview had brought back all the stomach-knotting, brain-numbing fear I’d felt on that day. And now I was a known witness – perhaps the only witness – someone who may need police protection in the near future. I was going to have to talk to Dr. Steele again. I took a happy pill and headed downstairs to meet Sean for lunch.
Chapter 17
I waved at Sean when he walked through the door. I’d arrived early, needing some quiet time between my meeting with Officer Donaldson and this one. He looked worn out.
“Hi,” he said, as he slid into his side of the table. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
“Did you talk with the police yet? Or is that after lunch?” Our waitress brought over water glasses, silverware, and menus. “Thanks, Lyn,” I said. She smiled, and said she’d be right back to take our order.
Not needing to check my menu, I waited quietly while Sean perused his. I eyed the manila envelope he’d brought with him; the word PHOTOS was printed on the front.
“I’m meeting with them at three o’clock,” he said. “I need to look at their faces when they tell me where they are in the investigation. Or where they aren’t. I can’t detect bullshit over the phone – excuse my French. But I can look someone in the eye and tell if they’re full of it or not.”
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the envelope.
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