Jessica said, “No, I don’t.”
Ted paused. “Slightly. I guess.”
“And you don’t know about these incidents being reported to Mr. Hale?”
“No,” Ted said.
Rafferty nodded, bent over, and took a file folder from his briefcase. “Well, that’s odd,” he said. “Perhaps you could help me narrow something down. You see, I have here a copy of a letter from Mr. Hale sent to you, Mr. Donovan—”
Jessica stiffened at hearing the detective stop saying “Ted.”
“—outlining the bullying incidents that had occurred and informing you that disciplinary action would be taken against Sam Warner. Mr. Donovan? Do you recall this letter?”
Silence. Rafferty leaned over and passed across the sheet of paper. He said, “You’ll see, Mr. Donovan, that your signature appears at the bottom of the letter. Is that in fact your signature? Acknowledging that you in fact received this letter and read it?”
Ted kept quiet, but Jessica shifted her view. She skipped reading the bland bureaucratic prose from the assistant principal and saw Ted’s familiar scrawl at the bottom of the sheet. And he had never told her!
“Ah, yes, it does appear so,” Ted said, taking his hand away from Jessica’s, holding the sheet with both hands. The paper trembled slightly.
“Are you sure?” Rafferty asked. “Could it have been forged? Could your son have written your signature in?” The detective attempted a smile. “I have to admit I did something similar when I was in high school, forging my mother’s signature on my report card the semester I flunked Spanish.”
“No,” Ted said, his voice sounding slightly defeated. “That’s my signature.”
He passed the paper over and Jessica saw it tremble some more. What in God’s name had Ted done? What was he hiding? Was he hiding anything else? Ted?
“I see,” Rafferty said, taking the paper back, gently replacing it in his folder. “I wonder if—”
Ted spoke quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m remembering it now. I mean, this has been a very, very busy few months for me. Lots of papers pass through. I now remember Craig asking me to sign something—he did it one morning just as I was leaving to go to work. I thought it was a permission slip or something like that for a school trip. I . . . I had no idea it was something that serious.”
Rafferty glanced again at his little notebook. Jessica’s heart went thump-thump. Her stepson was getting caught up with a prominent high school senior, captain of the wrestling team and a murder victim. Official records of bullying and fights. Nothing she had ever heard from either Craig or Ted.
Or even Emma. Did Emma know about the bullying her stepbrother had suffered? And if so, why hadn’t she told her mother?
“I see,” Rafferty said. “Well, that’s certainly reasonable. Now, like I said, I’m just gathering information, collecting facts at this point. It’s like one big jigsaw puzzle and I’m starting with the easiest parts, the borders. Do you know what I mean?”
Ted didn’t say anything, but Jessica said, “Absolutely, yes. That does make sense.”
“Thank you, Jessica,” Rafferty said. “The question I have is that your son, Craig . . . he had some unpleasant encounters with Sam over the past year. A couple involved some physical altercations. Now, I’m not making any accusations or casting doubt. But I need to know this. Just for the record. Where was Craig last night?”
Not quite believing what the detective had just said, Jessica quickly replied, “You mean the night when Sam was murdered?”
“Like I said, last night,” Rafferty said. “Could you tell me where Craig was?”
Ted spoke right up. “He was here, all night.”
“Never left the house?”
“No,” Ted said. “He never left the house.”
Jessica’s mouth went dry. This was serious, this was dangerous. This was police business. Ted had just lied to the police detective. She realized what Ted was doing, protecting his son. But what should she do? This was much more than the thought of Ted lying to her—that was . . . hell, that was what happened in some marriages. Sometimes husbands and wives kept secrets from each other. That was the way of the world. But lying to a police detective?
What should she do?
Rafferty said, “Jessica?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Craig was here all night. Didn’t leave the house once.”
Rafferty scribbled something in his notebook. “Very well, that’s quite helpful.”
But what about the cell phones, she thought, what about the cell phones?
Not now. Later.
Rafferty asked a few more questions—Did they know anyone who had a serious grudge against Sam Warner? Could they ask Craig and Emma if they knew someone like that? Since Ted and Jessica worked in the community, had they heard any rumors about Sam and his wrestling teammates? Then he flipped the notebook shut and smiled at them both.
Jessica was so relieved she almost sat back against the couch. He stood up, extended his hand, and both she and Ted reached over to give his hand a shake. She found his hand firm and dry.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” he said. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
Ted said, “Glad to help. Honest.”
Rafferty produced two business cards, crisp and firm, with raised lettering. “If either of you, or Craig or Emma, can think of anything to do with Sam and his activities, anything at all, please call me. At any time. And even if it’s something you think is small or not worth telling me, please tell me. You can reach me at any time via the Warner police dispatch.”
Jessica took the card in her hand while Ted examined it and placed it down on the coffee table. “Can I see you to the door, Detective?”
He bent down, picked up his leather case. “Certainly.”
Ted and Rafferty walked to the front door and the detective said, “There may come a time when I might want to talk to Craig or Emma. Would that be a problem?”
Jessica was going to say no, not at all, and was surprised at how quickly Ted replied. “Well, Detective Rafferty, we’ll have to think about that carefully. And perhaps consult with our family attorney. They’re both minors, and sometimes they think they know things when they really don’t. If you do make a request, we’ll certainly consider it.”
“I see,” Rafferty said.
Ted’s voice suddenly got stronger. “And just to make things clear, so there’s no misunderstanding, I don’t want you or anyone in the Warner Police Department talking to either Craig or Emma without us being present.”
Jessica was shocked at the tone of Ted’s voice and was also surprised at how calmly the detective took Ted’s words. He just said, “I fully understand, Mr. Donovan.”
He reached the door and tried to pull it open. It was stuck. He tried again. Still stuck.
Ted stepped over and said, “Yeah, this door is a real pain. Let me help you out. You need to pull and lift at the same time.”
Her husband did just that and the door squeaked open. Rafferty nodded in appreciation and said, “Oh, before I forget—Mr. Donovan, like I said before, I’m just checking off the boxes and filling in the blanks. So please don’t take offense.”
By the solemn way the detective was talking and the way he saved the best for last, she had an idea of what Rafferty was about to ask, and sure enough, that’s exactly the question he posed to her husband.
“Mr. Donovan, could you tell me where you were last night?”
Jessica waited for Ted to speak, and it was strange: even though she was a couple of feet away from him, she was sure she could feel a shake or tremble go through him when he answered. A simple second passed and Jessica felt the world would now be divided between then and now, all because of what Ted was about to say next.
“Last night? Heck, I was here all night, Detective. Right with Jessica on the couch. Reading the paper and watching one of those Real Housewives reality shows.”
He swiveled his head to Jessica, smiling widely
and confidently, as if he were about to close a deal on a prime piece of business property in downtown Concord. “I forget, hon, which one were we watching? Orange County? Beverly Hills?”
Jessica was looking at Ted and didn’t dare to shift her look over to the detective. The man was a cop, a pro. She had no doubt he could look right at her and determine that she was lying.
Still on the couch, she thought for a terrifying moment that she couldn’t speak, and then the words came out. “It was the New York housewives, followed by the ones from Australia.”
Ted laughed. “Detective, there you go. I mean, I can’t tell which one is which. It’s all about these rich housewives screaming at each other and spending their husbands’ money.”
Rafferty said, “So I’ve been told. Thanks for your help. Contact me if anything comes up, all right?”
Ted said, “You can count on it,” and closed the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was a knock on Emma’s bedroom door right after the shouting started, and before she could say anything Craig barged in. She was sitting up on her bed, legs stretched out, shoes off, checking her iPhone before taking a shower. Despite how tired she was after last night’s outing, she had still done well at practice.
As always.
“They’re fighting downstairs,” he said, sitting down on a chair by her cluttered desk.
“Yeah, thanks. I didn’t notice.”
He just sat there, breathing hard. “They’re fighting about the cop who just came by. About what they said to him.”
“And what was that?”
“I don’t know. But I heard both of our names mentioned.”
“Doesn’t mean anything.”
“What the hell. Emma, why do you think the detective came here? For the hell of it?”
Emma said, “Calm down. Jesus. Okay. He was here. He was doing his job.”
“But—”
She lowered her voice, scooted closer to Craig. “That thing you were going to dump . . .”
“What thing?”
It was times like this when Emma couldn’t figure out whether her stepbrother was being dense or was being a pain in the ass. Maybe both.
“What was in your knapsack,” she said. “From my study period this morning. You dumped it, right?”
“Shit, yes,” he said.
“Where?”
“Someplace safe.”
“Not safe, Craig. It has to be someplace where it won’t be found.”
Craig didn’t say anything, and Emma didn’t like that.
“Craig?”
“It’s gone, okay?”
Downstairs the shouting was still going on. Emma didn’t have many memories of her real dad, who had gotten himself killed in a traffic accident after his car hit a deer up in Maine, but one thing was sure—she didn’t have any memories of him screaming like that.
“You done?” Emma asked.
“Yeah.”
She swung off the bed, sitting up. “Okay, don’t freak out.”
“Huh?” Craig kept on rubbing his hands up and down on his jeans.
“It’s like this. I think your dad knows someone at Verizon, someone who can track our phones from the local cell towers.”
“Oh, suck.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know?”
“My mom told me when she picked me up from practice. She said there was a chance your dad could check with somebody from the cell-phone company, track our movements last night.”
“Emma, we are so screwed.”
“Jesus, Craig, cut it out,” Emma said. “I got it all figured out.”
“What?”
She smirked at her older and supposedly smarter stepbrother. “I told Mom that as part of the scavenger hunt last night we had to put our phones in plastic bags and leave them underneath a bush at the town common.”
“Really?” Craig asked, hope now in his voice.
“Yep,” she said, pleased with herself. “I told Mom that whoever ran the scavenger hunt didn’t want us using our phones to use Google Maps, and she bought it.”
Craig ran both hands through his thick hair. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” Emma’s iPhone was chiming away as her friends from school were sending her Snapchats or texts. She ignored them. “So that’s the story, okay? We hid the phones in plastic bags, we couldn’t use them, and we got lost.”
“And we still don’t know who sent us on the scavenger hunt.”
“That’s right. And maybe whoever sent us on the scavenger hunt, maybe they went into the woods last night. Not us.”
Her dopey stepbrother was sitting there looking like a lost puppy. Emma loved puppies and had asked for one each Christmas, but she never got one. She smartened up three years ago and stopped asking.
But Craig looked so much like a dog that Emma couldn’t help herself. She touched his right cheek for a moment and said, “We stick to the story, we back each other up, and we’ll be okay. Got it?”
He clasped his hands tightly together in his lap. “Yeah. Got it.”
The shouting downstairs seemed to ease up, which meant she had one more thing to do.
“Craig?”
His eyes lit up and, speaking of Christmas, he looked like how he might have looked ten or so years ago, coming downstairs to check out the wrapped presents underneath the twinkling Christmas tree.
“Get the hell out, okay? I need to take a shower.”
And like the good puppy he was, Craig got up and left her room.
Still, a few minutes later, when she did take her shower, Emma made sure that the bathroom door was locked.
Emma had always liked puppies, but they could never be trusted.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jessica had two urges roaring through her, one to hit her husband and the other to storm out of the house, but whatever cool and logical part of her still existed managed to keep both urges under control.
She found herself walking around the living room in a large oval, seeing the furniture, knowing most of it was originally Ted’s, wondering if he and his ex-wife, Amanda—now living in California—had laughed and giggled and loved while choosing these pieces. For some reason that irrational thought made her even angrier, and again she felt like an interloper. And with what Ted had just done a few minutes ago with the detective, she felt like an outsider, someone tossed into the middle of a dramatic play without knowing her lines.
The community college catalog she had been reading with such enthusiasm and excitement was now discarded on the couch, the colorful cover and happy students mocking her.
How can you even dream of such a thing? a voice echoed within her. You’re a nobody. A housewife with a high school diploma, working as a bank teller. Nothing more than a human ATM. Even your own daughter won’t run with you anymore. A foolish failure.
Aloud she said, “For Christ’s sake, what the hell were you thinking, telling Detective Rafferty that you were here all night? Damn it, Ted, it’s one thing to lie to protect our kids, but you didn’t even warn me of what you were going to say!” She turned to him. “Why? Why did you lie like that?”
Ted was sitting in his favorite chair, watching her pace around the living room. His face was mottled, the tone and volume of his voice matching hers, syllable for syllable.
“I couldn’t say I was out with Ben Powell,” Ted said, his fists clenched. “I couldn’t.”
Jessica stopped. “Why the hell not?”
Ted looked like he was struggling to talk, and something dark pierced her as she thought, Another woman. Was that it? Had Ted been out with someone else?
He shook his head. “Because.”
“Because? What’s this, sixth grade? Cough it up, Ted. Now.”
His face flushed more, and she couldn’t believe it—were there tears in his eyes? Then he unclenched his fists and sat back against the chair, all of his limbs and his chest and torso loose and relaxed, as if the muscles and tendons inside had all suddenly tur
ned into mush.
“Because we weren’t alone, that’s why,” he said.
Oh, shit, she thought.
“Who was she?”
He violently shook his head. “It wasn’t a she. It was a he.”
“Who?”
A hesitation, and then he said, “Gus Spinelli. From Boston.”
“Who the hell is Gus Spinelli?”
“An . . . investor,” Ted said.
“So why couldn’t you have said that?”
Ted didn’t answer.
It came to her. “Boston? Let me guess. The North End, right? Where what’s left of the Mafia tends to hang out.”
Ted said, “It’s not like that, it’s just that—”
“What?” she asked. “If it’s not like that, what’s it like?”
Ted shifted in his chair as if it were no longer his favorite piece of furniture, as if when this painful conversation was over he would never, ever sit in it again.
“Gus Spinelli is a guy who’s got money,” Ted said. “All right? He’s been friends off and on with Ben Powell since they grew up in the same neighborhood. And some of Gus’s money . . . it comes from different places. It can’t be reported. But he lends it out—he invests it in projects he thinks can make him some money.”
Jessica folded her arms. It helped focus her on not reaching and slapping her husband. “Money laundering.”
“Investing,” Ted said.
“Ted, stop being so goddamn insulting. I’ve been in banking all my life. I know what laundering is and what it’s about.”
“Well, that’s your problem,” he shot back.
“What problem is that?”
Now Ted looked like the pouty young boy who can’t keep himself from talking back to Mom or Dad. “You’ve worked all your life in banking. You’ve developed skills. Good for you. If Warner Savings were to close tomorrow, you could pick up and get a job with Citizens Bank, TD Bank, or any other bank in the state. You’ve got the experience, you’ve got the background.” He took a breath. “When I’m selling a home or a piece of property, I’m selling myself. Don’t you get it? Buying real estate is one of the biggest things people do in their lives, and they need to trust their realtor, need to know he’s on the up-and-up. So if I were to tell that detective that I was out last night with Ben and some guy from the North End with big bucks who has a rap sheet for some assaults and loan sharking, I can tell you what would happen.”
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