The Pocket Wife

by Susan Crawford

  Bye, bye, blackbird.

  Jack calls Lon Nguyen from his desk at work and asks him to get back to him as soon as he can. “You can come down to the office,” he says, “or just call me. The sooner the better.” He leaves his numbers. “Listen . . .” Jack glances at his watch. “I’ll be on your street,” he says. “I’m leaving now, so you can catch me on my cell.”

  He stops in the break room and grabs a doughnut. Rob lounges against a chair, waiting for the coffeemaker in the corner. It whines and belches, eventually spitting out some of the worst coffee in the world. Like mud, everyone says—mostly the women in the office—tsk-tsking, smiling. Men, they say, since it’s usually Rob who makes it. Rob or Jack.

  “Doughnuts, Jack? You? What would Ann say?” Rob winks at a rookie officer across the room.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jack says, munching. “‘Eat doughnuts and die’?”

  “Huh?”

  “Or maybe, ‘I’m cleaning you out. I want the dog, and by the way go screw yourself and eat doughnuts and die’?”

  “Oh.” Rob stops chewing. “Hey, I’m really sorry, Jack.”

  “Yeah. Well . . .” Jack grabs a second doughnut, wraps it in a napkin. “One for the road,” he says.

  “I can come along if you want,” Rob says. “We caught a break on the missing-teen case. A tip. Found her in Manhattan with her abusive boyfriend. She’s back home now, but who knows for how long.”

  “Great,” Jack says. “You did good, partner. Rumor has it you’ve got another case coming your way. Homicide over on Broadway in the wee hours. We’ll both be working it as soon as I wrap things up on Ashby Lane.”

  “Yeah. Saw that one when I came in this morning.” Rob’s phone rings, a marching ring. Lenora, Rob mouths, and Jack waves him away. “I’m okay with this,” he says.

  He pulls up in the driveway. It’s a sunny day. Cool. A breeze. Leaves are starting to turn color on the trees in front, and the yard looks different. Ronald will be crazed, Jack thinks, when he sees the disarray. Jack opens the car door and steps out onto the lawn, once green and pristine, once rife with Ronald’s roses and hydrangeas, but overgrown now with weeds that choke through the grass and climb across the flower beds. He likes it better this way, with the sidewalk a tangle of uneven monkey grass, the spent hydrangeas with blue flower petals strewn across the lawn, an odd, sporadic carpet, weeds oozing through cracks in the sidewalk. It looks almost Old World, he thinks. Ironically, it looks more like a home now that no one lives here. And maybe never will—not Ronald anyway. Not from what he’s said.

  Jack steps carefully around the yellow tape and lets himself inside the front door, standing in the middle of the living room for a minute or two. The air is cool; dust drifts and dances in sunlight streaming through the picture window near the couch. The room is still and frozen. There is no life here, no energy. He looks around, but he sees nothing he hasn’t seen before.

  Because of what his son said, Jack heads for the back of the house—to the kitchen, where, if Kyle told him the truth, Celia first called out to the person coming in the front door, the person who ultimately left her to die. Dishes still stand in the dishwasher. A couple of sponges are stacked near the sink. An empty bottle of sangria is on the counter, but no blood. Not a drop of blood.

  He glances at the floor. With the exception of the muddy footprints, it’s still clean, despite the time that’s passed, despite the boots and heels and stockings that have no doubt walked through or stood, as Jack now stands, staring at a room made all the more eerie by its neat, uncluttered state, a movie set devoid of actors.

  His phone rings. “Moss here.” Ann used to tell him he sounded silly answering his phone like that. Like a sitcom cop, she used to say, like a caricature.

  “This is Lon Nguyen.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Hey.”

  Lon Nguyen breathes into the phone.

  “Listen.” Jack leans against the counter under the window. “When I drove up here the other day, I noticed you guys have a Neighborhood Watch sign a couple streets over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that go for your street, too?”

  “Go for?”

  “Are you part of the Neighborhood Watch group?”

  ”Yes,” Nguyen says. “I am block captain.”

  “Great,” Jack says. “That’s great—these watch groups really cut down on crime.”

  “Not always,” Lon Nguyen says.

  “No.” Jack squats down on his haunches. “Not always. So that day,” he says, “the day Celia Steinhauser died.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you happen to notice a car that evening?”

  “We are in suburbs,” Nguyen says. “Lotta cars.”

  “Right. But did you happen to notice one that isn’t usually here?”

  “No,” Nguyen says. “But there was a car. . . .” His voice drifts off.

  “Yeah? What kind of car?”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Color?”

  “Not sure. It was dark.”

  “What? The car or the . . . ?”

  “Both.”

  “What size car was it?”

  “Don’t know. Medium size, maybe. It was not the car that seem strange,” Nguyen says. “It was where it was park. Not in a driveway.”

  “Where?” Jack focuses on a small, clear speck beneath the stove. With all his heart, he hopes Nguyen verifies what Kyle said. With all his heart, he hopes his son told him the truth.

  “On side street,” Nguyen says.

  “Which side street?”

  “The one across from Celia’s house.”

  “When?”

  “Not sure, but it was drive away before the ambulance come. I did not see the driver.”

  “At all?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I forget,” Nguyen says. “I forget until just now you ask me.”

  “Thanks.” Jack stands up. “You guys keep up that Neighborhood Watch group.”

  ”Yes,” Nguyen says. “That is all you want to say?”

  “Yeah. That’s all. Thanks again,” Jack says. “You’ve been a huge help.”

  He slides down to the floor, letting his back rest against the counter. He thinks about phoning Kyle. Dad, he’d called him. Jack smiles. That was a keeper. He’d saved the message in his voice mail.

  He glances back down at the one tiny piece of litter, and even that’s underneath the stove. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t squatted down exactly where he did, if he hadn’t gotten the phone call the second he did, but even so, they should have found it in the sweep. He frowns. These guys . . . It’s not the first time this team has screwed up. He pulls a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket and puts them on, walks across the room, and kneels down to reach under the stove. He isn’t sure what it is at first. He rests it in the center of his palm and squints at the jagged thing. A piece of fingernail.

  He stands up very carefully so it doesn’t roll into a vent. He holds it at arm’s length, as if it might reach up and scratch him. He doesn’t take his eyes off it as he grabs an evidence bag out of his pocket and seals the thing inside.

  Jack sits in the parking lot downtown and stares at the bagged bit of fingernail. He knows it probably means nothing at all, except that at some point Celia broke a nail while she was cooking. She might have jammed it against a cupboard door or the can opener. Possibly she snagged it on a pot holder or a loose thread on her apron. Or maybe the dog passed through and when she reached to grab him, she got her finger caught in his collar. The possibilities are endless, and he’s okay with whatever turns up, as long as the nail’s not his son’s. He radios down to the station to tell Rob he’ll be in after lunch. “I’m meeting with Lenora,” he tells him, “at the prosecutor’s office.”

  “Lucky you,” Rob says.

  “Right.” Jack runs his palms across his hair, remembers the way her hand felt resting o
n his arm the day before—warmer than he would have thought. He straightens the collar of his shirt and steps out into the parking lot.

  “Detective Moss?” Lenora stands in the doorway to the lobby. She looks much more professional than she did at E.Claire’s the day before. She’s wearing a black skirt that drifts against her legs when she turns to beckon him inside and a gray blouse with lace around the wrists.

  “Thanks,” he tells the secretary who’s summoned her, and he immediately trips over the doorsill. Damn, he thinks. Get a grip.

  “Have a seat.” Lenora’s all business this morning. Or mostly business. She smiles. “I enjoyed our brunch,” she says, “although I don’t imagine that E.Claire’s is exactly your cup of tea. No pun intended.”

  “It was fine. Great croissants.”

  “I’d guess you’re more of a diner kinda guy,” Lenora says. She sits down at her desk.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Harry’s Diner, actually, not too far from here. How’d you guess?”

  She laughs, and her throat curves inward as she tilts her head back. Her skin is smooth and bright in the sunlight coming through the window. “I didn’t get to be an assistant prosecutor without being somewhat observant. Actually, I’ve seen the place. It isn’t far from here.”

  “Right.” He fumbles with the file on his lap. Its contents embarrass him as he sits here in Lenora’s office, her perfume heavy in the room. It all seems intimate, suddenly, these prints of Peter’s on his neighbor’s bed—this affair, captured now on the papers in Jack’s hands. He watches Lenora’s finger trail along the edges of the proof, the particulars, the moans and movements, the lust and sweat and laughter, the knotted hair and tangled legs, the passion, documented in the contents of the envelope that rests across his knees.

  “Are these the prints from the lab?”

  “Yep.” Jack hands her the file. “The neighbor’s prints are all over the dead woman’s bed.”

  “Where?” she says.

  “The headboard. The footboard, the bedposts, both of them, the— Hell, the rails . . .”

  “Whose?”

  “Peter Catrell’s.”

  She doesn’t say anything. Her face is blank, expressionless, but it registers in her body, the impact of his words, the shock of them, and he wonders if she, too, was duped by this asshole, if she’s disappointed that he isn’t who she’d thought.

  “You know him, right?”

  “I do.” She smiles. “Through his clients. A couple of his clients. We worked on the Whitman case together a while back, and then a few weeks ago we—”

  “Does this surprise you? His prints on the dead woman’s bed?”

  Her lips curve up on one side in a little half smile. “Not really. He— Let’s just say I’m not all that surprised.” She peruses the report. “What a jerk,” she says. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Motive?”

  Jack shrugs. “Celia was an inconvenience? A threat to his marriage? There’s an incriminating picture somewhere.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  ”I’ve got time,” Lenora says.

  “I don’t,” Jack says. “But in a nutshell, the Steinhauser woman snapped a photo of Catrell in a compromising situation with his secretary.” He stands up, walks across to her desk, where Lenora now sits, the print results spread out in front of her.

  “I see.” She sticks the prints back in the envelope. “Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you spare me a couple more minutes?”

  “Sure. What can I do you for?”

  “The prosecutor . . . well, Frank Gillan—you know Frank—is retiring,” she says. “Did he tell you?”

  “Not really.” He slumps back in the chair beside Lenora’s desk. “He mentioned he— Jeez. I really hate to hear that,” he says, and he is. “Frank’s been prosecutor forever. It sure won’t be the same around here without him.”

  Lenora nods. “I’m in line for his position. I didn’t say anything before because I wanted to be absolutely sure he was going to . . . to actually . . .” She lowers her voice as if her desk is bugged and she’s divulging state secrets. “That’s why I’ve been so— You know my thoughts on Frank, on his policy. On his attitude. What’s happened to the crime rates in the county. I’d like a chance to change that, turn things around.”

  She clears her throat. She twirls the ends of her bangs around her index finger. “I’m having breakfast with the judge and his entourage next Wednesday. I’m hoping he’ll put in a good word for me when he sees the governor.”

  “Take him to E.Claire’s and it’s in the bag,” Jack says.

  “That’s the plan! I’ve even made reservations.”

  “You’re seriously taking him there?”

  She nods. “An early lunch, before the noontime rush. Great service. It’s festive. Reasonable. Plus, they’ll pull some tables together for a group.”

  “Well,” he says, starting to stand, “best of luck to you.”

  “Wait,” she says, and Jack sits down again. “I guess Rob told you the missing girl turned up.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you considered making an arrest in the Steinhauser case?”

  “Yes,” Jack says. He looks her in the eyes.

  “The Catrell woman?”

  He nods.

  “Maybe you should do it sooner rather than later.”

  “Why is that? You know something I don’t?”

  “No,” she says. “No I— Actually, wrapping up this murder case on Ashby Lane would make me a far more viable candidate for Frank’s position. I don’t mean to put pressure on you. . . .”

  And yet you are. He bites his tongue, nods. “And Dana Catrell being arrested?”

  “Is a good first step.”

  “Are you ordering me to . . . ?”

  “No,” she says, “of course not. But I am suggesting you make an arrest in this case soon.”

  “Right,” he says. “Mrs. Catrell is locked up at the moment, won’t be going anywhere right now. By the way, the husband? Peter Catrell? You’re his alibi—one of them anyway—for the day Celia was killed.”

  She frowns. “That could be. We did meet,” she says. “The three of us. Frank was there, too. I’ve forgotten the exact date. I’ll have to check my calendar. The only thing is, our meeting was early in the afternoon. I don’t see how he can get much mileage out of that. She stands up, extends the envelope to Jack. “Thanks,” she says. “I appreciate your bringing this down. If we do a business meal again, we’ll make it at Harry’s. Promise.”

  At the lab he asks for the tech he knows. “George,” he says. “I need to talk to him.”

  “He’s in the back.” A receptionist he’s never seen before blows a small bubble with her gum, inhales it inside her mouth and chews with a series of loud snaps.

  “I’ll wait.” Jack sits down on one of the hard plastic chairs. It’s bare-bones here. There’s not even a window in the tiny lobby. It’s a very different world from Lenora’s.

  “Sure.” She snaps some more as she leafs through a thick stack of papers.

  “You guys backed up?” he says.

  “Always.” The gum smacks again, forming itself into a medium-size, mud-colored bubble. “He’ll be out in a sec.” Her words implode into a round of vociferous smacking as the door opens and George steps into the tiny room. She bounces out of her seat and stretches, tosses her gum into a nearby wastebasket. “Taking my lunch.” Her voice is whiny and young.

  “I need a favor,” Jack says when the secretary’s gone, when her cell-phone chat is fading down the hall. The elevator dongs its arrival, and her voice disappears behind its closing doors. “She new?”

  “Yeah.” George smiles. “She’s a temp. Jeez.”

  “Can you get these run through quick?”

  “What? For DNA?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Steinhauser case?”

  Jack nods. “I�
�ll owe you one.”

  “One what?” George says. He takes the bag.

  “One whatever.”

  “Make it one receptionist and you’re in,” he says. “Preferably someone over twelve and not a gum chewer.”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course really,” Jack says. He crosses his fingers and stands up. “See if there’s a match with what we’ve already got.”

  “I’ll see what I can do for you, call in some favors—”

  “Thanks,” he says. “And, George? Keep this on the down low, will you?”

  “Sure,” he says, and disappears inside as Jack heads out the door to the hall. On the elevator the voice of George’s temp chirps between floors, and Jack thinks of Lenora walking in her heels across her office, gorgeous and driven.

  CHAPTER 38

  Dana sits on the small bed in the tiny room that’s been her home for the past several days. She’s packed her things—a few items of clothing, a toothbrush, a smattering of toiletries, three novels she hasn’t touched. She’s tucked them back inside the suitcase that Peter delivered on her second day here, dropping it at the nurses’ station as she drifted between worlds, as she struggled to return to earth. She’d refused to see him.

  She sits on the bed beside her bag and stares at the wall.

  He is in the lobby. She’s asked the small nurse with the kind face to keep him there. “I need a minute,” Dana told her. “I need to say my good-byes.” It isn’t true, actually. She’s said her good-byes. She said them last night, what few she had to say.

  She’s given out her number to exactly three patients—a man and two women from her group. She’d like to hear from them, she’s said. She’d love to get a coffee, catch up when they’re discharged, but she knows they won’t call. She knows she’ll never hear from them again, and if she does by some random stroke of luck or coincidence see them on the street or in a coffee shop or standing on the platform waiting for a train, she knows they’ll look the other way, as if they’ve never met, as if she were a stranger on the street. It won’t be anything personal. And then again, it will be as personal as tearing tiny pieces from their hearts or brains or lungs. “What happens in Vegas,” she mumbles, and she runs her fingers through her hair and sighs.