“Nice shot,” Smitty said.
Havens waved him off and turned back to me. “You don’t like the school idea?”
“It’s not that,” I said.
“You got anything better, I’m listening.”
“There’s one other thing we should probably think about. I got it from the police reports we picked up in the evidence warehouse.”
“One of the things you ‘remembered’?” Havens said.
“Yeah. It was the address and phone number for the Street Ministry. And a couple of names.”
“What’s the Street Ministry?” Sarah said.
“It’s a homeless shelter and soup kitchen,” Havens said. “A couple of blocks from Skylar’s school. James Harrison was living there at the time he was arrested.”
“I was thinking I might check it out while you guys talk to the teacher,” I said. “Two birds with one rock.”
“One rock?” Havens said.
Sarah smiled. “Sounds good, Ian.”
Havens seemed a little hacked off, probably because he hadn’t thought of it. Or maybe because of the way Sarah called me Ian. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it was my daydream, so what the hell. In the end, Havens rolled with the plan.
“I’ll text you guys the address for the school. We’re supposed to be there at nine-thirty.” Havens turned to me. “Is it all right if I leave the files on the other two cases with you? My neighborhood’s had a lot of break-ins this summer, and I don’t want to lose the stuff.”
“Sure.”
The three of us walked out to his car and transferred Havens’s Bankers Boxes to Sarah’s trunk.
“I’ve got a couple more in my apartment,” Havens said.
“You home tomorrow afternoon?” I said.
“Should be.”
“Give me your address and I’ll swing by.”
Havens jotted down the address, then climbed into his car.
“Hold on,” I said and put a hand on the door. “We should talk about Z.”
“What is there to talk about?”
“She covered the Scranton case.”
“More than covered,” Sarah said. “She won the Pulitzer Prize for it.”
“And knew everything that was going on inside the investigation,” Havens said.
“What does that mean?” I said.
“Who knows? Maybe she was in the cops’ hip pocket. Maybe when she realizes we suspect Wingate is connected to Scranton and they were both framed, she tries to screw us. Maybe she already knows and is screwing us as we speak.”
“That what you think, Jake?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. We’ve got our teeth into this thing. I say we take it where it goes, at least for another week. If Z gets herself fucked in the process, too bad.” Havens trailed a hand out the window as he pulled away from the curb. “Have fun you two. See you tomorrow, Joyce.”
He gave me an evil grin and was gone.
Sarah and I watched Havens’s car disappear down Central. Then we began to walk.
“You think he’s right?” I said. “About Z?”
“Probably not. But there’s no reason to tell her everything either.”
“She probably knows the Scranton murder as well as anyone. If there’s something there, she might be able to see it.”
“And then there’s the other possibility,” Sarah said.
“You think she’d screw around with us on this?”
“You’re talking about a major milestone in her career, Ian. If our theory holds up and they arrested the wrong guy, it becomes a major embarrassment. Or worse.”
We walked for a while, past a small group of stores and into another residential block. The houses here were nice, with wide driveways and watered lawns. A woman came out of a Prairie-style home carrying a stack of plastic chairs. She lined them up in a row at the corner of Lincolnwood, and disappeared back down the driveway. Next to her white chairs was a blue blanket and battered chaise longue. Across the street was a line of twenty folding chairs.
“What’s up with all this?” Sarah said.
“All what?”
“The chairs on the sidewalk?”
“You’ve been in Evanston for how long?”
“Four years and counting.”
“It’s July first. People are putting out their chairs to reserve spots for the Fourth of July parade.”
“Seriously?”
“Never been here for the summer?”
“No.”
“People used to get crazy. Stake out spots two weeks in advance. Rope off areas. Now they have a law. July first and no sooner. By tomorrow Central will be covered in lawn chairs, beach chairs, blankets. I’ve seen whole living rooms out here.”
“Folks love their parade, huh?”
“An American classic.”
We’d drifted a mile or so down Central, into another commercial strip. There was a small park to our right.
“You want to sit?” I said.
“Sure.”
We found a bench. People were taking their kids in and out of an Italian ice store across the street. We sat in the sun and let it warm our faces.
“I need some color,” Sarah said.
I looked over. She had her eyes closed. Her skin was perfect.
“You look great,” I said.
“Please.”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Sarah.”
She shaded her eyes and stared at me. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
She sighed and stretched. Then dismissed me by closing her eyes again.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Fine.”
We lapsed into silence until Sarah broke it.
“You want to know what I am, Ian?”
“From the sound of it, maybe not.”
“I’m what they call ‘almost good-looking.’ ”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m not quite one of ‘them,’ but almost.”
“Not quite one of who?”
“Never mind. You don’t get it.”
I got it. I just never met anyone who would actually acknowledge it. Never mind talk about it.
“You’re one, Sarah. Hell, you define the category.”
“That’s sweet, Ian, but you’re wrong. I’m almost one.”
If Sarah Gold was in the “almost” category, I shuddered to think where I fell.
“Jake’s one,” she said. “You’re a guy, but you can still see it. Looks, brains, probably played sports. I’m sure Mr. Havens has no trouble with women.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
Sarah opened her eyes and crinkled her nose. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You just told the truth.”
“Sometimes that gets me in trouble.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re a good-looking guy, Ian.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“You are.” She might have been smiling when she said it, but I was looking straight into the sun and couldn’t tell.
“I’m thirsty,” I said. “You want a drink or something?”
“Sure.”
We went across the street and got a couple of lemonades at Foodstuffs. Then we sat at a table in the shade.
“What do you know about Jake?” she said.
“Jake again.”
“I told you. I don’t have a thing for him.”
“It’s okay if you do.”
“I know it’s okay, but I don’t. I’m serious, Ian. What do you know about his family?” Sarah took a sip of her lemonade. I could feel her gaze prickle my skin.
“I’m not following you.”
“Why do you think he’s so into the Wingate case?”
“Because of the letter he
got?”
“There’s more to it than that.” She pulled her chair closer until our foreheads were almost touching. Her words came out in a rush. “Jake had a younger brother who drowned back east. Cape Cod, I think. Have you heard this?”
I shook my head.
“Jake was ten or twelve, and his brother was, like, eight. They were diving off some rocks, and his brother got caught up in the ropes from some lobster pots. Jake’s dad had told them not to swim there, but they did anyway. Jake dove down a bunch of times to try and save him. Instead, he watched his brother drown.”
“Jake told you all this?”
“We went out for a few beers after we walked you home the other night.”
“And why are you telling me?”
“I don’t know. I guess Jake just seems really intense about Wingate.”
“And you think that’s because of his brother’s death?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you should have asked him why he was the one who got the letter about Wingate. If maybe the person who sent it knew about his brother. Knew Jake would be vulnerable to that sort of thing.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Maybe.” I looked out across Central. The sun was hard and bright in the middle of the street. A woman in jeans and a white top was yelling at her kid, who had wandered too close to the curb. We finished our drinks and walked some more. The conversation about Havens lay heavy between us. After a while we turned back down Central. By the time we got to Sarah’s car, a breeze had sprung up. The air felt good on my skin.
“You headed home?” I said.
Sarah nodded. “Come on. I’ll drop you off.”
I sat in the front seat, with the flat of my foot up against the dashboard. Sarah didn’t mind or I wouldn’t have. A cut from Exile on Main Street came on the radio. “Shine a Light.” She sang along with the lyrics.
“You like the Stones?” I said.
“I saw the movie. Scorsese.”
“Get the album. Exile on Main Street. Listen to the whole thing.”
Sarah saluted. “Yes, sir.”
We pulled up to my house.
“Thanks for the lift,” I said. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”
“You want to ride together?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up.” She leaned over and gave me a dry kiss on the lips. A brother-and-sister kiss if there ever was one. Put our night on the beach to bed. I began to get out of the car. She touched my arm. “You gonna get those boxes out of my trunk?”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You want me to help you bring them in?”
“Let’s just put them in my car for now.”
We transferred Havens’s Bankers Boxes to my backseat. Sarah sat up on the hood and swung her feet in the air. “Wednesday. The Fourth of July parade.”
“What about it?” I said.
“Are you going?”
I never went to the parade. Then again, I wasn’t entirely stupid either. “Never miss it. Why?”
“I was thinking it might be fun.”
“You want to go?”
Sarah nodded. “If it’s okay.”
“It’s okay.”
“Great. What time?”
“I’ve got some things to do in the morning. Maybe around ten? We can get some breakfast and then head over.”
“It’s a date. You going over to Jake’s apartment tomorrow?”
“I gotta pick up the rest of his files.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“I don’t know. You guys seem to work well together. You click.”
“What planet are you living on?”
“Do you really think someone sent Jake that letter because of his family?”
“If they wanted to hit a nerve, he’s the guy. What does it matter? The case deserves to be looked at.”
“You’re right.” Sarah slid off the hood and gave me another hug. “See you Tuesday.”
I watched her car until it disappeared around the corner. Then I climbed into my own and picked through the material Jake Havens had collected. Sarah had assumed the boxes of evidence were going into my house. I’d learned a lesson, however, from my run-in with the Chicago police. So I took out my cell phone and made a call.
21
Jake Havens lived at the corner of Forty-sixth and Greenwood, in a South Side neighborhood called Kenwood. Like my classmate, the neighborhood was something of an enigma. Walk ten blocks in one direction and you’d find Barack Obama’s Chicago home. Beyond that, the University of Chicago. A half mile the other way and stripped-down buildings stood naked in the sun. Boarded up. Vacant. Silent. Save for the cash-and-carry drug trade. And that went on 24/7.
It was almost four in the afternoon when I pulled up to Jake’s building. There was a small park across the street named after the Chicago poet Gwendolyn Brooks. A couple of kids were playing hoops on an asphalt court, and a mom pushed a stroller along one of the park’s sunlit walking paths. A mail carrier worked the far end of the block, and a shirtless man stood in the street, washing down his car with a hose and a sponge.
Havens lived on the second floor of a brick six-flat. I knocked on his door. It creaked open at first touch.
“Hello? Jake?”
I took a step inside and stopped. A dusty hallway stretched out in front of me. At the other end was a room with windows covered by heavy shades.
“Havens? You here?”
I walked tentatively down the hall and into what appeared to be a living room. There was a cheap sofa sitting on a threadbare rug and a couple of small round tables. On one of the tables was a framed photo of Jake as a boy. I picked it up. Jake was standing in a boat, smiling into the sun, and holding a largemouth bass that was half as long as he was. Sitting next to him was a younger boy, with a shock of flaxen hair and a face full of freckles. The younger kid looked up at Jake with a mixture of innocence and awe that would have broken my heart if I’d let it. I moved my eyes back to Jake. The strong jaw was there, the clear eyes, the certainty of who he was, the instinctive command of the moment. I wondered if this had been the trip. If this had been the summer. Jake at ten years old, diving into the cold salt water, following the lines of the lobster trap, watching his brother drown.
I put the picture down and ventured deeper into the apartment. A kitchen, draped in darkness, was set off to one side of a short hallway. On the other side, two doors. One was closed. The other stood open. A yellow light burned inside. I walked toward the light.
It was Havens’s bedroom, except I wasn’t sure where he slept. The bed itself was covered with paperwork from the investigation. Files carpeted the floor and ran in a row down one wall. Photos, sketches, and random notes were pinned to the walls, doors, furniture, and every other available bit of space. I pulled a piece of paper off Jake’s headboard. It was a diagram of the interior of a building.
“The original’s in one of the boxes I gave you.”
I jumped in my skin and turned. Havens stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a crooked smile on his face.
“Hey.” I sounded weak. Out of breath. “Your front door was open so I came in.”
“ ‘Coming in’ means you walk in, see no one’s around, and wait in the living room.”
I felt my face burning but knew I wasn’t going to back down. Not with Havens. “If you’re waiting for an apology, it’s gonna be a while.”
He shook his head and snatched the diagram from my fingers. “You know what this is?”
“A mechanical drawing of some sort?”
“It’s Skylar Wingate’s grammar school.”
“The place we’re going to tomorrow?”
“The cops searched it from top to bottom after Skylar disappeared. They spent a day and a half right here.” Havens pointed to a spot he’d circled in red. “In the boiler room.”
“Why?” I said.
“Don’t know, but they searched. So I’m
gonna take a look.”
“What makes you think there’ll be anything left?”
Havens snapped his head up. “Left from what?”
I could feel his eyes on me. Fierce, intelligent, restless. “You’re the one with the diagram, Jake. You tell me.”
He folded up the drawing and slipped it into his pocket. “You’re right. It’s a long shot, but I figure it’s worth a try.”
I glanced past his shoulder, down the dim hallway. “You got a roommate?”
“He’s gone for the Fourth. Lives in Columbus.”
“And you sleep in here?”
Havens chuckled. “I call it the ugly brown room. I just push some papers off the bed and crawl in. I know, it’s weird, but that’s how I roll. College, law school, finals. I just sink into the stuff. Literally. And I don’t surface until I get it right.”
There was a large photo of Billy Scranton in his school uniform thumbtacked to the wall. I pulled it off and held it up. “And this stuff never bothers you?”
“You mean the murders?”
“The murders, the kids, the evidence. You don’t mind all of it in your bedroom?”
“You get used to it. I’ve got a bunch more down here.” Havens sorted through a pile on the floor and came up with an armful of folders.
“What are those?” I said.
“ViCAP pulled up eighteen more cases that might fit our pattern.”
Havens lined up the folders on his bed. Each file had a photo of a child clipped to its front.
“That’s a lot of kids,” I said.
“We’d have three times this amount if we asked for the ones whose bodies were never found.”
“And you’re telling me each of these is somehow connected to Skylar Wingate?”
“Didn’t say that. These cases fit our general search parameters only. ViCAP runs each case through several more filters before spitting out a final list. Chances are none of these wind up fitting our specific pattern. Then again, we’ll never know for sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“You want some coffee?”
“You gonna answer my question?”
“Let’s get some coffee.”
Ten minutes later, we were sitting in Havens’s kitchen. I couldn’t find any sign he ever used the place. No pots, pans, glasses, dishes. No food that I could see. Just a coffeemaker, a sack of beans, and a couple of mugs. We sat on stools under the pale light from an overhead fixture and finished off what was left of a pot of blended Sumatra.
The Innocence Game Page 9