“About what?” Now he was on his feet, shaking a finger down at her nose while waving his mug of hot coffee all too close. “They’re good boys! They ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”
Joan resisted the urge to pull back into the cushion of her chair. “I believe you. The boy who called me seemed to think they might turn out to be the heroes that violinist was talking about. Is it possible? Do they ever stay in town after school?”
He sat down and parked his mug on the floor. “No, they ride the bus home.”
“That’s what made the boy who called me wonder. He said he usually rides the same bus, but they haven’t been on it the past few days. They’ve been riding their bikes, instead.”
“They’ve only got the one bike. Sometimes they ride it together, if they miss the bus to school—in an emergency, you understand. Then Adam rides it home, and Timmy comes home on the bus.”
“Did they do that on Monday, do you know?”
“Could be. I leave before they do of a morning. Monday I got some overtime. They was here when I come home for supper.” No sign of a mother in this household. She wasn’t going to ask.
“Mr. Johnson, would you mind very much if I asked your boys about this? I don’t want to scare them. I’m nobody official. But if they saw something that will help the police, and if they can bring themselves to tell what they saw, they really will be heroes. I don’t know whether there’s a reward out, but it wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”
“When you put it that way …” He smiled for the first time, revealing teeth that needed a good dentist and probably never would have one.
Where were the boys? Joan hadn’t seen any sign of them, and yet their father didn’t seem at all worried.
He went to the door, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. “They’ll be here.” He came back in, but didn’t sit down again.
Sure enough, in a few moments she heard young voices outside. Then the door opened to admit two boys with burr cuts, their short, fine hair so pale as to be almost invisible. The little one stopped short when he saw Joan, and the big one had to put on the brakes not to run over him.
“Come on in.” Laying his hands on their shoulders, Mr. Johnson propelled them toward Joan’s chair. “This lady wants to talk to you.”
They looked scared. Were they that used to being in trouble?
“I won’t bite, honest.” She smiled at them. “I hear you might be heroes.”
They looked at their father, doubt written all over their faces.
“You tell her what she wants to know.”
“Yes, sir,” said the older one. Adam, her caller had said. He might be fourteen or fifteen. His voice hadn’t changed, and he was still a foot shorter than his father, but he already had the same lanky look. Timmy, though slender, was rounder than his brother. They wore jeans and plain T-shirts, a red one and a blue one, both faded. They weren’t as clean as their father, but what boys are, especially a couple of hours after school?
“Last Monday a man was hit while he was out riding his bike in Oliver, near the college.”
Adam stared straight ahead, but Timmy’s head swiveled toward his brother.
“Some boys called 911 and gave him the only chance he had to live. Afterward, a college student saw a couple of boys who looked like you two near the accident. The police still don’t know who hit the man, who was a police sergeant. They’re hoping the boys could tell them what they saw.” She let the words hang in the air.
“That was on the TV,” Mr. Johnson said. He leaned against the door, releasing their shoulders.
“That’s right. Boys, if you were the ones who saw the accident, and if you called 911, you’re not in any kind of trouble. You’re already the good guys. But if you tell us what you know, you can help solve a crime. Won’t you do that?”
“That was no accident!” the little one burst out.
“Timmy—” His brother’s hand shot toward him, but Timmy dodged it.
“I told you we oughta tell.” He turned huge blue eyes on Joan. “That old car sped up to hit him. They did it on purpose!”
“They?” Joan asked.
“Somebody,” Adam said. His voice was dull. “I couldn’t see who was driving. We were too far down the street. I don’t think they sped up, but they were going fast, and they never even slowed down.”
“What did you see?”
“Just a white car, tooling away fast.”
“A license plate?” Probably too much to hope for.
Adam shook his head. “Too far away.”
“What kind of car?”
“Maybe a Ford.”
“A station wagon,” Timmy said. “And somebody wrote on it.”
“Graffiti?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“So what did you do?”
“I rode over there—I rode my bike to school that day,” Adam said. “The guy looked dead. So I knew we had to call 911. We rode over to the college library. They’ve got a pay phone in the lobby, and 911 calls are free, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. And then you rode back to see the cops come?”
“An ambulance came,” Timmy said. “I thought that was dumb. We told 911 he was dead.”
“But he wasn’t,” Joan said. “He was still alive. You gave him the only chance he had. It’s a good thing you acted as fast as you did.”
“See?” Timmy said. “I told you we had to, Adam.”
“Had to what?” Joan asked.
“Borrow his ten-speed.”
Joan saw storm clouds gathering on their father’s face. “You certainly did,” she said. “That was exactly the right thing to do. Riding two of you on one bike would have been too slow. What happened to the ten-speed?”
Both boys studied their scuffed sneakers.
“Son?” Mr. Johnson growled at Adam.
“When we got back, a man was standing there.” He didn’t lift his eyes. “I was scared he’d say I stole it.”
“And then?” Joan prompted.
“Then I heard the sirens. I didn’t want to get arrested. So we took off fast.”
“On the ten-speed?”
“Timmy rode ours and I rode that. I was gonna take it back later, but he was gone and I didn’t know where he lived. Then I heard the police were looking for us, and I was real scared.”
“Where is it now?”
“Out back, in the woods. It’s okay, Dad, honest.”
“The police want to see that bike,” Joan said. “But I’m sure they’re not going to arrest you. They want to see whether the car that hit Sergeant Pruitt left anything on the bike that will help them find the car.”
“Like what?”
“Paint, maybe. I don’t suppose they’ll find anything else.”
“I did,” Timmy said.
“Did what?” his father said.
“Find something else. I put it in my pocket, for a souvenir.” He pushed his hand deep into his jeans pocket and pulled out a bit of broken plastic. Yellow plastic, curved.
“Where did you find it?” Joan asked.
“On the street, by the bicycle. I picked it up while Adam was picking up the bike.”
Watching his father’s face, she rushed in. “That’s wonderful, Timmy. That’s just the kind of thing that could crack this case wide open. And the bike, too, Adam. You boys did just right. First you got help, and then you took care of the evidence.” She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick.
“You been riding that bike?” Mr. Johnson towered over the boys.
“Some,” Adam said, not meeting his eyes.
“You been riding it to school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll take it back in the pickup, right now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Johnson,” Joan said. “I think the police will want to see it before it’s moved again, and certainly before any paint from the pickup can get on it. I know Lieutenant Lundquist, who’s in charge of this investigation, and I’m sure he’d
like to come in person to meet your boys.”
“You think so?”
“I really do.” And who knows, maybe Kyle Pruitt’s family will let them keep the bike. “Let’s give him a call.”
“Uh—the phone’s not working just now.” Shut off? she wondered. He’d be much too proud to say so.
“I’ll find him, then, and bring him right back.”
23
Had she made a mistake, not taking the piece of plastic with her? Leaving it with Timmy had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, negotiating the curves on the way back into town, Joan wasn’t sure. She tried to remember what she knew about the chain of evidence. Did it even apply to something that had already been removed from a crime scene? But she was sure she was right in persuading Mr. Johnson not to load the bicycle into his truck. She hoped it wasn’t too late, and whatever traces the white car had left on the bike hadn’t already been destroyed when Adam hid it in the bushes at school and the woods at home. Even so, her heart sang at the prospect of offering Fred a lead, any lead.
She pulled into the last empty visitor parking spot at the police station, passing by closer spots marked RESERVED FOR POLICE. Not that anyone would ticket her when she arrived with news like this, but habit was strong.
“No, ma’am,” the civilian desk clerk said. “He’s not back yet.” And he’s much too busy for you, the bored look on her face said plainly. “Can I take a message?”
“I’ve found Kyle Pruitt’s bicycle,” Joan said flatly.
The clerk sat at attention and punched her switchboard. “There’s a woman down here asking for Lieutenant Lundquist. Says she’s got Sergeant Pruitt’s bike. Yes, sir. I’ll tell her, sir.” When she turned to Joan again, her whole demeanor had changed. “Would you take a seat, please? Captain Altschuler will be right down.”
Joan sat down on the hard wooden bench and wondered whether it had been designed with malice aforethought to poke suspects in uncomfortable places. Or were suspects rushed right in, unlike innocent citizens with information for the police?
This time she didn’t have to wait long. She recognized the man coming down the stairs in a dark blue suit, who looked as though he might have been a prizefighter—nose a little mashed, and off center. Fred said Warren Altschuler was tough, but fair.
Joan stood up and held out her hand. “I’m Joan Spencer, Captain.”
He shook it. “Warren Altschuler,” he said in a voice full of gravel. “What’s this about Pruitt’s bicycle? Did you bring it here?”
“No, but I can take you to it.”
“Are you sure it’s his?”
“Oh, I think so. The boys who called 911 have it.”
“You found them, too?” When she nodded, he called to the clerk. “Alice, track down Lundquist and tell him to report back here. He deserves to be in on this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Altschuler’s homely face creased into a smile. “Come on up and tell me all about it. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
He led her into an office a little larger than Fred’s and offered her a straight chair that was only a minor improvement on the hall bench.
“Tell me all about it.”
She began at the beginning, with Uwe’s visit to the school, today’s phone call, and then her trip out Quarry Road. He leaned forward with his elbows on his desk.
“Did you actually see the bicycle?”
“No, but the boys described it as a ten-speed. The kid on the phone said it was blue. What I did see was a piece of plastic one of the boys picked up off the street at the scene and has been carrying around in his pocket. It looked like part of a parking light.”
“You didn’t bring that with you?” A half-question.
“No, I didn’t know whether I should. I’m not sure they would have trusted me with it, anyway. I told them I’d bring Fred back. And I said they’d be heroes if they preserved the evidence that cracked this case. Kind of corny, but they’re just kids, and I wanted them to feel good when the police arrived. They’re poor, Captain. No working phone—that’s why I came back here. You think there’s any chance of a reward?”
“A reward for what?” Fred walked in.
“Mrs. Spencer’s found you a lead on Pruitt,” Altschuler said, smiling broadly.
“And you’re asking the department for money?” Fred sounded stern, but his eyes were crinkling.
“No. I asked for you.”
“Fill him in on the way,” Altschuler told her, and they left.
“What did you come up with?” Fred asked as they walked downstairs.
“Oh, Fred, it’s the boys you’ve been looking for. They have the bicycle and what looks like a piece of the car!”
A few minutes later Fred was her passenger, with a police van following to bring back the bicycle. Joan gave him the long version and, when she dared to take her eyes off the curves, enjoyed the expression on his face.
She drove home alone, leaving Fred with the awestruck Johnson boys. He would come back in the van with the uniformed officer and the bike.
Bruce had switched from the Brahms to finger exercises and was flying through some that she remembered taking at a crawl, back in the days when she still practiced seriously enough to do them at all. When she opened the door, he grinned lopsidedly at her without pausing. Taking the hint, she tossed her shoulder bag on the sofa and headed for the kitchen. He went back to Brahms, and again she heard that different cadenza she’d thought she’d dreamed in the Osbornes’ living room. He’d found a new one—or written one himself, the way violinists used to do, the way Brahms’s friend Joachim had written the one almost everybody played. Now he was switching back and forth between the Joachim cadenza and this new one. Hadn’t he decided yet which to use on Friday?
Supper was almost ready when the violin broke off.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
Joan hadn’t heard the door, but that was Fred’s voice.
“Give him a break, Fred.” So, Andrew had come in with him. “If you’d been working as hard as Bruce all day, you’d be begging for an excuse to quit.”
Joan smiled, listening to the two of them and Bruce. They sounded like family already. Feeling good, she tucked up her back hair, but ignored the stragglers around her warm face, in the probably vain hope that the occasional blasts of steam they’d received while she was cooking had bent them into some semblance of curls.
Fred came into the kitchen and kissed her on the back of the neck, sending little shivers down her spine.
“If I never loved you before, I do now.”
“You got it?”
“We got it. There’s no question about it; it’s Pruitt’s bike. The vehicle that hit it did leave white paint on it, so we can probably trust the rest of the boys’ description. You were right about the parking light, too. The department will come through with some money for the kids, and I’m sure Pruitt’s parents will want them to have the bike when we’re done with it.”
At the table, they shared the news, but Bruce and Andrew were more interested in Camila. It figured; she was prettier than Kyle Pruitt.
“So what happened? What was she doing here?” Andrew asked, and they told him, with Fred filling in the bits Joan and Bruce couldn’t.
“I still don’t have any idea what she was doing in Oliver,” Joan said. “Did you learn anything from the neighbors this afternoon, Fred?”
“No, if they even were the neighbors. Her memory was still too spotty to mean much. She may have been held somewhere else entirely.”
“You think she’ll eventually remember how she ended up here?” Andrew asked, helping himself to the last of the roast. Either Bruce wasn’t such a bottomless pit, or he was holding back out of politeness. Or maybe Andrew just beat him to it. It would be all right. She had shamelessly spread frosting out of a can onto an Amish angel food cake she’d bought on the way home. It should be plenty big enough for all of them. The Amish made generous cak
es, with a hint of almond she loved.
“Maybe,” Fred said. “I don’t think anyone knows for sure. All we can do is wait and keep nudging her with questions.”
“You know her family will do that,” Bruce said. “And Rodrigo.”
“And the IPD,” Fred said.
“Her mother may keep them off her back until she has her chance to play Saturday night,” Bruce said. “She’s not out of the competition yet.”
“That’s good,” Andrew said.
“For her, sure. But I’d better not lose any of my edge between now and then. Camila at her best is awesome.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Joan said. “But so are you.” Loyalty aside, she meant it.
“Thanks.”
“Are you going to keep working tonight?”
“No, I’d kind of like to hang out with you guys. Get to know you all better, if you have time.”
“Sure,” Andrew said. “The pressure’s off, now that I finished that lab.”
“Not tonight,” Fred said, but he was whistling when he went back to the station. Although Joan wondered what progress he could make at this hour, she was so glad to see him feeling good that she didn’t ask.
On Friday morning the sun shone brightly and a brisk wind tore leaves off the trees. Joan kicked at them and sniffed autumn in the air as she walked to work. She spent a peaceful morning at the adult day care, feeling more useful than usual. Fred hadn’t even suggested that she attend the funeral.
No one mentioned having seen her name in the paper, which had run a brief article about Camila’s sudden appearance in the park. After feeding Charlie again, she walked over to Dr. Cutts’s office.
“I had rubella as a child,” she told Liz MacDonald. “So it’s not a problem.”
“Not good enough. We need medical records to prove it.”
“They’re long gone. What can I do?”
“Well, you could have the rubella titer done, but that costs fifty dollars. It’d be a lot cheaper to let us give you a rubella shot.”
Ridiculous, Joan thought. But in the back of her mind, she knew that it wasn’t.
“When did this happen?” Liz MacDonald prepared the injection and swabbed her arm.
The Vanishing Violinist Page 16