He gave Rich the floor. “As Mr. First Selectman stated, a body has been found, and while evidence has pointed to a certain conclusion, I caution that this is not a final determination until we receive all the possible data. When we do receive those results, we plan to open an investigation that will get to the bottom of what happened. My only guarantee about the impending investigation is that it will move much slower than most of you would prefer.”
This got a few laughs. Gwen was impressed at how much more comfortable and confident Rich had become in this type of setting. When she first started back at the Gazette, he stuttered, and appeared as if he was going to faint—and that was just discussing the police budget, not serial killers and fifty-year-old mysteries.
Peter introduced Will, who gave a firsthand recount of the “non-juicy” discovery. He had been able to provide the police with some general conclusions about the remains, but he deferred to the Medical Examiner’s Office, as it wasn’t his area of expertise.
Peter opened it up to questions, and Gwen got things rolling, asking about the next steps. She received a predictable response about a “diligent” investigation that would follow with “no stone left unturned.”
“Was there a curse involved?” asked a reporter from the News Times.
Well, that didn’t take long.
Peter took that one, “I’m admittedly not a believer in such things, but I am versed in the specific curse that has recently come to light. I guess the best way to answer that is to say that our investigation will not rule out anything.”
“Woodrow Hastings and Poca Dohasan were the last people to see Archibald alive. Will they be considered suspects, and will their prominent role in the potential casino play into it?” asked that same reporter, who continued to surprise Gwen with her knowledge of the case.
The question hit a nerve with Rich, who threw up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—we need to slow down. We have not yet even officially identified the body, or determined if foul play was involved.”
“Do you suspect that this discovery is connected to the recent hoax, which had similar elements to the Archibald disappearance?” Gwen asked. “In other words, could this be another hoax perpetrated by Ghost Town, USA?”
Peter stepped in, “The television show in question has denied any connection to the hoax. Just to be sure, Rockfield has refused them access to our town for filming until further notice. I would be hard-pressed to believe that they’d be involved in this, but again, our investigation will be done with an open mind.”
For what was expected to be a blockbuster, the press conference was turning out to be a sleeper, so Gwen decided to shake things up. “First Selectman Warner, you said earlier that you aren’t a believer in curses, but ever since JP Warner has returned to town, many strange events have taken place—surely this can’t be a coincidence. Do you believe in the Curse of JP Warner?”
She didn’t get much reaction from the bland group of reporters who seemed more interested in getting home in time for Saturday night dinner. But she did get the reaction she wanted—a smile from JP, who was strangely reserved throughout the questioning.
Peter declined the question, on the account he might be in trouble with his wife. But Gwen knew the answer: the trouble in Rockfield began long before JP, or anyone attending this press conference had arrived.
Chapter 39
Outside of a brief tension-release that came from Gwen’s zinger, I spent most of the press conference quietly stewing with my fists clenched. I couldn’t get passed one thing, and I felt the heat closing in.
Our town was burning.
The fire had begun in small ways, but had spread, and now I could feel it against my cheeks, and the smoke filling my throat. I saw it on people’s faces all day after the discovery—a quiet uncertainty I’d never seen before. Was it possible our little bubble-wrapped slice of goodness was not what we thought it was? Was it built on a fault line of murder and lies? Or in Poltergeist terms—did they move the headstones, but leave the bodies?
The last time I’d attended a high-profile presser at Town Hall I was consumed by myself—the devastation of losing Noah, combined with the desperation of having to save Gwen from Grady Benson—but this felt bigger than my personal pain. This was about the legacy of my hometown.
The events of the past were affecting the present, and threatening the future. I had no idea where we went from here, and when I looked into the eyes of both my father and Rich Tolland, while they addressed the media, I could tell they had no idea either. Curses, casinos, teenage hoaxes, Thomas Archibald—it was all connected somehow, but I couldn’t see it. My mind was cluttered with possibilities—it was loud and moving quickly. I needed to slow things down, so that I would be able to think clearly.
The place I normally went when I needed clarity was the woods behind my childhood home. But they had succumbed to fire, and no longer held that same magic.
I thought to make a trip to the bridge, which was at the center of all of this. It’s also where I would go to talk to Noah—I’ve never been able to bring myself to visit the cemetery. But that wasn’t an option today, as that was too near the area where they pulled Thomas Archibald’s car from the river, and it was crawling with reporters and the macabre.
So I settled on Plan-C.
There was always something I found special about an old, airless gymnasium, especially when it was empty—just me, the ball, and the rim. I loved the echo of the bouncing ball, and the mix of smells—must, sweat, and industrial cleaner. And even when alone, you could almost feel the place come alive—the rickety stands rocking with cheering supporters, the loud buzzer of the scoreboard, the squeaking of sneakers. Maybe I did believe in ghosts after all.
But on this late Saturday afternoon, it was more than memories in the building—someone else was here.
I stepped inside the Samerauk Elementary gym just in time to see my niece, Ella, clank the ball off the metal rim. She chased down the ball, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she ran after it.
But the ball reached me first. I scooped it up as we came face to face. “How’d you get in here?” I asked.
She looked both surprised and annoyed by my presence, more so the latter. “My dad is the athletic director for the school district. He gave me his key. How did you get in?”
“My brother is the athletic director for the school district—I took his spare key when he wasn’t looking.”
She grabbed the ball away from me and returned to the court. I followed, even though I wasn’t feeling welcome. “I kinda wanted to be alone,” she said.
“I’ve been saying that for thirty years—it never really happens.”
She made a shot from the free throw line. I rebounded the ball and passed it back to her. “So are you excited for the season?” I asked.
She shrugged.
She made another shot, and I passed it back again. We started to get into a rhythm—shoot, rebound, pass back, shoot. “Well, I’m looking forward to coaching this year—four starters back from last year’s undefeated squad. The only team that has a shot at us is the UConn women’s team, and I’ll bet they’d be too scared to play us.”
Ella blew out a deep sigh. “If you haven’t forgotten—you’re suspended for the first three games, so I wouldn’t be so excited if I were you.”
Since the Internet refuses to let me forget my meltdown that was caught on tape, and led to my suspension, forgetting wasn’t really an option. But it was also a perfect segue to what I really wanted to discuss.
“At least Eliot got some good experience when he led you to that win in the final game last year. He should be able to hold down the fort until I get back.”
Her face soured. “I think the rules are that you have to have an actual adult coach.”
“It didn’t stop them from hiring me,” I said with a laugh. I got a quick grin from Ella, before the angst returned.
“Listen, if you don’t want Eliot to be involved with the team this year, then I
won’t bring him back.”
“Because you’re my uncle?”
“No—because you’re my star player.”
“That wouldn’t really be fair to him.”
“Life isn’t fair. Fact is, I need you in a positive frame of mind more than I need him.”
She shrugged again. “It doesn’t really matter—he’ll probably be too busy with Gracie to coach this year, anyway.”
And we had gotten to the crux of the problem.
Ella began shooting almost as fast as I could pass her back the ball. She wasn’t making any of them, and I wasn’t sure she was trying to. It was like she was punishing the rim for Eliot’s misbehavior.
“Gracie has had a tough go of it—maybe cut her some slack. Could you imagine how you would feel if something happened to your dad?”
She looked at me like I wasn’t getting it. “Did I say one bad thing about Gracie? Eliot is the one who’s the jerkhead.”
She had a point. I also sensed she was about to spill her guts, and the reporter in me let her spill them. The uncle in me would then help her clean them up.
“He was supposed to be my best friend—everyone called us EL² for Eliot and Ella together—and I treated him good, even when half the class thought he was a total nerd boy.”
I was going to remind her that it was a smart strategy to befriend those nerd boys, since they’re the ones who start those tech companies that get publicly traded, but she was on a roll and I didn’t want to interrupt.
“Now he barely talks to me at school. But he acts like every stupid thing Gracie says about New York, and how cool and better it is there, is so great. Did I change that much over the summer? I just don’t understand.”
I confiscated the ball before I would have to pay for a new rim. I walked over to her and sat on the gym floor. I motioned for her to take a seat next to me, which she did.
“Sometimes guys get a little whiff of greener grass and follow our noses to it. But then we look up and realize we wandered too far away, and don’t know how to get back home. So we panic, which is why we end up acting like jerkheads.”
“Is that what happened between you and Gwen?” Things somehow got turned around on me.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but she was the one who was chasing the lush green lawns. She even put a down-payment on one.”
“That’s not what my dad said.”
“Well, your dad is pretty smart … at least for a guy. So he’s probably right.”
She let out another extended sigh. “Things are just getting so complicated. Everything was so much simpler when I was young.”
Way back in the good old days, when she was ten.
“I hate to break it to you, but the older you get the more complicated things become.”
“My dad says when life gets confusing, just kiss.”
That didn’t sound like something my brother would say. “Trust me, when the kissing starts, that’s when things really get complicated.”
“Ewe … not that kind of kissing! Kiss, as in keep it simple sweetheart.”
Not only was it good advice, but it brought me the clarity I sought. If we were going to get to the bottom of this, we would have to block out the noise, the diversions, and all the crazy rumors, theories, and hoaxes. Focus on the simplest possibilities. The most obvious. The common denominators.
And there were two common denominators when it came to the Thomas Archibald disappearance—Woodrow Hastings and Poca Dohasan.
Chapter 40
Sunday—Midtown Manhattan
Taking the sage advice of my niece, Gwen and I set up surveillance on the two common denominators. The goal was to find out which one was the lowest common denominator.
I also took Murray’s words into consideration, when he told me that the Thomas Archibald disappearance was more than a crime. It was collateral damage of an ongoing war that went back almost two hundred years.
The current generals in that war were Woodrow and Poca, so one of them had to be responsible for launching the latest shot across the bow. And that was exactly what the discovery of Thomas Archibald’s car was. But which one was it, and why? Was it a response to the hoax? The answer would come in the reaction of the opposing general—the one who didn’t launch it—and that’s why I was spending my Sunday stationed outside the offices of Evans, Kramer & Gordon.
Heading directly to see your lawyer could be perceived as the actions of a guilty person. But it could also be a mother visiting her son, who happened to be a lawyer at the firm that called this modern glass skyscraper home.
About an hour later, Poca, dressed casually in a blazer and jeans, exited arm-in-arm with Chayton, who was in weekend law firm attire of button down and khakis, no jacket or tie.
They chose to walk, instead of hailing a cab, so they weren’t going far. I stayed about one crosswalk behind them, until they entered a restaurant that I knew well.
Norvell’s was my old haunt back in the Lauren Bowden days. Actually Lauren was the haunt—Norvell’s was just the restaurant we frequented, but I digress. I watched as they were led to a table on the outside patio.
I arrived at a lectern just outside the vine-covered entrance, where you sign up for a table. I pulled down my Yankees cap, and adjusted my sunglasses, hoping to remain incognito.
“Mr. Warner—it’s good to see you,” said Bridget, who often waited on Lauren and me when we dined here.
And there went that.
“Good to see you too.”
“Will Ms. Bowden be joining you?”
I braced, expecting Lauren to appear out of nowhere. It wouldn’t be the first time. Once I was sure the coast was clear, I said, “No, I will be dining alone today.”
“You know, she’s been coming in here a lot lately with Mr. Sutcliffe. They tell me it’s a business meeting, which I find strange since I never ask, but I think there might be something more going on there.”
Another reason to tip well—good intelligence. The CIA could take a lesson.
“Is she telling him what to order, and providing condescending career advice?”
“How did you know that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“And they always request the private room, and leave through the back entrance. Like they’re the President and First Lady or something.”
Gwen had mentioned to me that she had stumbled upon their coupling while searching out a lead in the Huddled Masses case. But if Lauren Bowden wants to avoid publicity, then we might be onto something much bigger.
I needed to get back on track. A line was starting to build behind me, and the last thing I needed was a scene. I pointed to the patio area and asked, “See that table?”
Bridget followed my eyes. “Yes—I just seated them. A mother and son.”
“Is there any way I can get a table where I can hear what they’re saying, but they wouldn’t be able to see me.”
“Like spy on them?”
“I wouldn’t exactly use those words, but pretty much, yes.”
Her face grew serious. “I can’t let you do that … I’m sorry.”
“I understand—and apologize for putting you on the spot like that.”
She smiled mischievously. “But I can—what’s your cell number?”
Relationship-101 states that if you give out your number to cute, college-age waitresses, it will come back to bite you in the ass. But it was my only shot. She typed the number into her phone, and then went about her business.
I sat on a nearby bench reading the New York Globe. The story on the skeletal remains found in a Connecticut river was located on page eight. I guess finding bones in rivers was passé in these parts.
I kept looking at the entrance, then at my phone, and began to get frustrated with Bridget. My control freakishness was starting to get the best of me. But just before I stormed back to the lectern and blew my cover, I received a text: They’re on the move.
Sure enough, I saw Poca and Chayton exit the restaurant. As
I started to follow, more texts came in. To summarize—Gwen would be proud—they discussed a meeting that Poca was planning to attend this afternoon, but gave no specifics. Chayton was against her going: Let me handle it. Mother responded: This is my fight, son. And I’m going to end it, once and for all.
I had no idea what it meant, but if I were looking for a dramatic reaction to Archie resurfacing, putting an end to it, once and for all, would suffice.
They arrived at a subway entrance on 59th Street near Columbus Circle, embraced, and Poca descended the steps. Chayton flagged a cab, but I wasn’t interested in him. I pulled my hat down, and walked by him without receiving a second glance. I hurried down the stairwell, and located Poca just in time to see her getting on the #1 train heading uptown.
I made it just before the doors shut, and luckily for me it was full. I spotted her at the other end of the car, and watched as a man gave up his seat for her. It was good to be the pretty girl, whether you’re seventeen or seventy-one.
I stood, strap-hanging, sandwiched between a couple of hipsters who might have gotten lost on their way to Brooklyn. My eyes never left Poca—she continued to stare straight ahead, as if she had much on her mind. Not the free and easy woman I’d interviewed just days ago at the Main Street Tavern.
As the train continued uptown, the stops became familiar—79th Street, 86th , 103rd. When we reached the 116th Street stop, Poca exited, merging into the crowd made up of mostly Columbia University students. I knew this stop—it was the one I’d get off to go to the brownstone where I lived for many years, and still owned.
I stayed about thirty feet back as she continued to make her way on foot. I kept my head down in case she looked back, but she never did. Where was she going?
She entered the tree-lined streets of the neighborhood that I always found to be an oasis from the concrete jungle of the city. Poca kept walking right up to my brownstone and knocked. What the hell?
The door opened, and she disappeared inside … my house! Before the door closed, I caught a glimpse of the man who’d opened it. He looked in the direction that she’d arrived from, as if to make sure she wasn’t being followed. But he should have looked straight ahead, across the street, where I was standing.
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 17