“Aren’t we being retentive, Doctor? You’re forgetting; I’ve seen the photographs. Believe me, the two were doing more than just heavy petting.”
“I don’t dispute she had intercourse on the day she was killed, Officer—I’m betting an hour, maybe two at the most, before death—but what I can say, unequivocally, is the victim did not have sexual relations with the person whose blood was found in the alley, or with the person who stained the bed sheet, who we know to be her cousin Jordy.”
“Slow down, Doctor; now I’m totally confused. What is it you’re trying to say?”
“What I’m trying to say is, your victim had intercourse with someone, but not her cousin, at some point between the time she went missing and the time she was killed. The semen sample doesn’t match the boy.”
…
Sara telephoned Kubiak collect from a pay phone on the street, unwilling to apply a long-distance charge to her escalating monthly cellular bill for which she was unlikely to be reimbursed. He was in the office with Burke.
“Nothing,” he said in response to Sara’s first question. “No trace of the boy yet, or Jeremy Radigan.”
Sara chewed frenetically at an inside corner of her lower lip, drawing blood. Jordy Bitson could be anywhere, she said; he had a two, perhaps a three-day head start. Is it possible to leave the country without a passport, Art, Sara wondered? Did he have resources other than the four thousand-odd dollars they had confiscated from his room? Would the State Police be sufficiently motivated, now, to commit additional manpower to the search, given that DNA evidence linked Jordy to the crime scene, if not to the crime itself? If not Jordy, who had sex with Missy that day? An accomplice? What did Jordy do? More importantly, what did Jordy see?
“We won’t know until we have him custody, Sara,” Kubiak said in a blanket reply to her inquiries. “Christopher has something for you.” In Seneca Falls, Kubiak passed the receiver over to Burke.
“You have a letter, Sara, a package from Verizon. It arrived this morning addressed to Officer Pridmore, Care of Warren County Sheriff’s Office. Should I open it?”
Yes, Sara advised, having forgotten completely about her original request from the telephone company.
“Telephone records. Lots of them, going back twelve months.”
Sara explained to Christopher that for the time being only calls originating from Seneca Falls and outgoing to Mineola, and likewise originating from Mineola and back were relevant. Burke put her on speakerphone. There was a rustle of paper and after five minutes he said.
“You won’t believe this, Sara. The calls into, and originating from, Mineola are to and from the home of a David Radigan.”
“Jeremy’s father, brother?”
“Who knows?” Over the line, Sara could hear the sound from Burke shuffling more paper. “And get this, Sara.”
“What?”
“Dozens of calls placed from the home of Dave Radigan to the Sentinel-Tribune and the home of Seamus Mcteer, clustered in bunches over what looks to me like weekends going back a full year.” Burke breathed heavily. “Jesus, Sara. Do you know what this means?”
Sara said, “I imagine you’re going to tell me.”
“Think about it: Mineola and Jamestown, Brewton, Lehigh Acres, Vanceburg, Wisconsin Rapids, Montreal and Vancouver. I bet if we crosscheck the area codes on long distance calls made from Radigan’s place, Mcteer’s and the Sentinel-Tribune, we’ll find these scumbags have been talking to people all over the continent.”
In a way that begged to be contradicted, Sara asked, “Aren’t you getting carried away?”
“It’s like the newspaper article said, Sara.” Burke was gloating. A hundred miles away over a fiber optic cable, Sara sensed it. “Contact your Dog at the Bureau, cupcake. We’ve hit the kiddy porn lottery. This will be good for page one in The New York Times. Who says not much happens in a small town?”
Sara said, “Get me Art, Chris.”
“I can’t; Art is shaving.”
Jesus, she muttered under her breath. Then, recalling a second set of records, she asked, “Chris, Missy’s cell phone records; I put in a request for those, too.”
A moment later, back on the line, Burke was saying, “Bitson to Kubiak on the day of the murder; five minutes in duration. Not a minute later, Kubiak back to Bitson; thirty seconds in duration. What’s up with that, do you think?”
But Sara didn’t respond; she couldn’t, the words caught on the windpipe at the back of her throat. At her end of the line, she’d dropped the receiver. Gripping the black telephone box tightly with both hands, she said to herself: Jenny, what did you do? What in God’s name did you do?
SENECA FALLS, SOMETIME IN THE SEVENTIES
LISA DIORIO WASN’T SURE with whom she was more angry, her mother or her dad. Without explanation, they’d reneged on a promise to allow her to attend the high school senior prom. Lisa was in her freshman year, just turned fifteen, and though she looked young, she was mature for her age, or so the senior boys who were in a position to know told her. It was why Bradley Cutler, the tall blonde star of the local football, track and basketball teams, had invited her in the first place. Even now, knowing she might be forbidden to attend, the thought of arriving to the prom on his arm sent a shiver up Lisa’s spine.
Without attempting to understand the logic, Lisa was satisfied that the event was to be held in the October following spring graduation. Had it been at the conclusion of the previous school year, as was the custom in the surrounding communities, Lisa would still technically have been considered in grade school. Though Bradley might see her secretly, she doubted he would have willingly suggested they be seen publicly together. Lisa presumed the prom followed after the graduation to ensure no one who had “flunked” was potentially invited to attend the proceedings, as might have occurred if invitations were extended prior to final marks being assessed. Perhaps it was to accommodate those students needing to attend summer school to achieve their academic standing. Lisa wondered about this without real interest. When the time came, she did not expect to fall into this category.
Lisa stretched her body out on the long grass. It was unseasonably warm for the second week of October; in Bolton’s Landing, they had yet to experience their first killing frost.
That afternoon, in a huff, Lisa had taken her bicycle and pedaled the four miles to the river. Her parents wouldn’t approve, but if she weren’t permitted to attend the prom anyway, what did she care? Since the killing of the girl in Seneca Falls, seventeen miles to the south, her mother had become skittish— her father’s word, not hers—each time Lisa left the house. Lisa wasn’t concerned; the dead girl was a child; Lisa was herself full grown.
By five o’clock, Lisa was ready to return home. By now, her mother would be sufficiently worried. Lisa could leverage the anxiety, perhaps cause her to relent and permit Lisa to attend the prom. The temperature had dropped with the sun and Lisa shivered, dressed as she was in only the blue jeans and the thin top she had thrown on before hurriedly rushing out the door. Retrieving her bicycle, she pushed it through the long grass to the gravel turnabout, a secluded patch used in the daytime by travelers and tourists, and after dark by young couples in cars hoping to cop a quick feel. This late in the season the area was deserted, though tonight the activity might pick-up.
Lisa walked the last twenty yards from the river up a shallow incline, the angle of the late day sun directly against her face, forcing her to squint. Almost to the turnabout, she heard a vehicle approach then come to a full stop, gravel cracking beneath the tires one moment, nothing the next. A car door opened, then closed.
Above Lisa, at the summit of the incline, a figure appeared, looking down on her as if monitoring her progress. For a brief moment, she thought it might be Brad; tall, though with the sun behind him indistinct, like a silhouette, Lisa thought, proud of herself for accurately defining the image. A man at any rate, she decided, not a woman.
“Brad?” she called. “Did my parents tell y
ou I was here?” she asked, immediately realizing the unlikelihood of that.
The figure came closer and Lisa realized it was not Brad. Not Brad, but someone she recognized? Not someone she knew, exactly, but someone who was familiar to her. Lisa struggled to recall.
“Do I know you?” she said, not at all certain. “I think I recognize your face,” she said as the figure drew close, sun dipping beneath the horizon, silhouette fading gradually to a shadow. “I know,” Sara said. “The newspaper. I know you from your picture.”
It was the last thought Lisa Diorio had that day, or any other day. Moments later, her body lay on the ground, unconscious in a heap. Had they been aware, it would have been some small consolation to Lisa’s parents to know, though she had died violently, their daughter had not suffered greatly for the fact.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
EVELYN BITSON REPLENISHED the cooler, mindlessly sliding bottles of Budweiser, Miller, Pabst Blue Ribbon and an assortment of light and imported brands along a row of metal racks until each was stocked with no less than one dozen beer.
Tonic was empty now and would be until later that evening, the regular crowd scheduled to arrive shortly prior to the ten o’clock session. Typically, most would linger for the midnight set, but this evening was special and Evelyn knew the owners would be anxious to clear the small room after the first show, hoping to turn it over twice.
Performing tonight was native Brooklynite Joe Maneri, with accompanist and featured guest his violin-playing son. Maneri was a free jazz saxophonist who had been with the New England Conservatory of Music for over thirty years. He’d cut his teeth on the swing of Coleman Hawkins and the be-bop of Charlie Parker, and Evelyn wondered if Maneri were free jazzing even before the days of the great “Trane”. While at the Conservatory he’d written a treatise on the possibility a musical octave contained seventy-two notes. Evelyn studied piano and was doubtful, but tonight Maneri was celebrating his eighty sixth birthday so if she had the chance to speak with him, she wouldn’t say.
Evelyn was anxious for the rush to begin, for the opportunity to shift her attention to pushing brown pops across the Formica countertop in exchange for singles, sawbucks and assorted loose change. The tips were lousy at Tonic but the side benefits consisted of all the booze you could drink—which after Evelyn went off shift after four in the morning wasn’t much—and, if you were musically inclined—which Evelyn was—an opportunity to sit in with featured artists or even, during the week, to step up alone to the small main stage. On many occasions Evelyn had done, recently with greater confidence and success.
Evelyn was good, good enough to know it would not be boastful on her part to say. Playing regularly at supporting gigs throughout Manhattan, she hadn’t yet been invited to appear at Birdland, the Blue Note or the Village Vanguard, but at the rate she was progressing, Evelyn knew some day she would. If her father had done nothing for her, he had supported her gift. After what seemed like a lifetime away, Evelyn refused to accept his money for anything else: not for clothing, not for food, not for rent. She lived modestly by herself in a rent controlled three room apartment in Chelsea, which if she were to abandon it today, would be impossible to replace.
Sara Pridmore entered the club just after two. Evelyn watched as she crossed the floor toward the bar, Sara’s outline a silhouette against the bright sunlight streaming through the open doorway.
Pretty, Evelyn thought, slim and athletic with nice tits and a nice ass. Not a free jazz enthusiast, judging by the clean cut but disheveled Abercrombie and Fitch appearance. Without asking, Evelyn knew in advance the girl was a cop. She said as much as Sara approached the bar.
“I am,” Sara replied.
“What do you want?” Evelyn said, continuing to stock beer.
“I’m here to speak with Evelyn Bitson.”
Evelyn stopped restocking, stretched herself to her full height and observed Sara suspiciously, in a way that only a New Yorker feeling at a disadvantage possibly can.
“She know your coming?” Evelyn’s voice was husky, deeper than her slight physique promised.
“I called. Spoke to her employer. Left messages on her machine. I was told she’d be in this afternoon.”
When Evelyn didn’t respond, Sara said, “Look, I’ve come a long way. It has to do with her sister.”
“Sister?”
“Missy,” said Sara.
Evelyn thought, smiled, and as if they were sharing a secret replied, “Yeah, right, her sister.”
Evelyn paused in her methodical assault on the beer cooler, retrieved an open package of Kools from beneath the bar and, after being refused in her offer to Pridmore, lighted one for herself.
“Listen,” Sara said, becoming impatient, “if Evelyn isn’t in, can you tell me when she’s scheduled? I need to drive back; it’s a long way.”
“What’s this about, sweet-cheeks? Evelyn and I share a room, among other things. I’m sure you know what that’s like.”
Sara blushed. Lifting herself from the bar stool, she passed Evelyn her card. “When she gets in, have her call. It’s urgent. Her sister is dead and we have a suspect in her murder.”
Evelyn fingered the card. “Ah, so her father will finally get what he deserves.”
“The suspect is not her father. Tell her we don’t suspect Eugene.”
Evelyn grinned sardonically. “Brilliant, Sherlock. Tell me, did you find your badge at the bottom of a Cracker Jack Box?”
“Come again?”
“You’re priceless,” said Evelyn, grin turning to a laugh. “What makes you think Eugene Bitson is my dad?”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
“THINK, MAGGIE, THINK.”
For the third time since discovering from Henry Bauer that Leland McMaster shared the same fatal syndrome as his murdered kin, Art Kubiak pressed Maggie Bitson for a response.
“I’m thinking, Art, I’m thinking,” Maggie insisted to the Sheriff over the telephone, her tone near hysterical. “I don’t know. I can’t think right now, I just can’t,” she immediately contradicted. “It hurts,” Maggie said, “here.” She pressed an index finger to her forehead, to show Kubiak, as if he might be watching.
Kubiak raised a cigarette to his lips, noting a scab had formed overnight in the center of his palm, an ugly though not serious to the point of requiring stitches gash. He had woken last night clutching at his St. Jude Medallion as if it were a lifeline, so tightly the sharp edge had pierced his skin. He hadn’t had a nightmare, could not recall having had even a dream. But the anxiety was real, manifesting itself in a racing heart, cold sweat, the shakes and, worst of it all, the feeling someone was scooping out his guts with a giant spoon, as if he were half of a ripe melon placed on an ogre’s platter for dessert, or, if he were Joel Pataki, as if he’d overdone his commitment to the Atkin’s Diet.
In addition to his head, Kubiak’s feet ached. Briefly, he considered abandoning his expensive orthopedic shoes. (Rena would think him engaged in a purposeful act of self-pity, though in Kubiak’s mind of the many things he had to regret, his misshapen feet were not among them.) His face hurt too, but Kubiak would never consider giving up his blade.
“Maggie, I know about Evelyn, about the relationship with your father.”
“You know nothing of my relationship with my father, Art,” replied Maggie, tone subdued. “My father is a generous man; he shared what he thought was most important with me. He’s more generous and caring than any man I know, and wanted only the best for me. I’m thankful for that, grateful.”
“How can you say that, Maggie? The man molested you.”
“He’s the father of my child, Art. I can’t change that. Nothing changes that.”
“It’s what I’m saying. Is there a chance he was with Missy the day she died, remaking her in an image of you? You may be willing to forgive him yourself, but do you forgive him her?”
Kubiak was parched, as if gallons of water would not be able to slake his thirst, as if the Colorado River in f
ull flood would not quench his esophageal drought; his throat felt like a tract of scorched California scrub brush, or the salt flats, or worse, like the surface of another planet, one situated too close to the sun. Earlier, when he’d wanted to place the call to Maggie, Kubiak had needed Dorothy to dial on his behalf, unable to make out the numbers himself. His vision had since cleared, but the temporary blindness—if it’s what it was—had left him shaken. Had he suffered a stroke?
After finishing his first package of cigarettes, he began counting the butts in the ashtray: one up to twenty, twenty down to nineteen, back to eighteen and so forth; eleven to twenty, back to one. Twenty to one, back up to nineteen: one to twenty counting back, then, from nineteen to two. Two to nineteen, back to three, up to eighteen, down to four, up to seventeen and so on, repeating the pattern, leaving to the finish one and twenty as bookends; a million—well, he conceded to himself, perhaps not a million, but hundreds, or thousands of possibilities. And here, Kubiak was unable even to coax Maggie Bitson to admit to the potential for one. But she was thinking it, and like accidentally walking in on your parents having sex, it was an image she would not soon erase.
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