by Tessa Wegert
“Crissy,” Felicia said sadly, glancing over at my mom. “I love my daughter, so I don’t want to say this, but her memory . . . it isn’t good. Drugs will do that to a person—don’t bother,” she said when I opened my mouth to, what, defend my cousin against an absolute truth? “I have personal experience with this subject,” she said. “It’s hard for Crissy to remember that time of her life. She’s off the methamphetamine, thank God, and she’s in a social support group now, but the damage is done. You have to take what she says with a whole handful of salt.”
It was a curious statement, coming from a woman who imagined baby stealers skulking in her backyard. It also seemed like a patent attempt to derail my questioning about Cheryl. For the moment, I let her think she’d succeeded. “When did that start?” I asked, thinking of Doug’s comment about the meth. “The hard drug use?”
“Crissy started smoking marijuana when she was around fifteen. It took me longer than it should have to realize it, but she wouldn’t have listened to my warnings anyway. It was her abduction that hooked her on meth. Whoever took her forced her into it, and after that . . .” With a desolate expression, Felicia shook her head.
I did, too, but not for the same reason. Crissy had been young and stupid, yes, but her home life was a nightmare. Though I didn’t condone it, I could understand why she took the path she did. “Her disappearance,” I said, taking note of that word abduction and pressing onward. “What happened there?”
“We don’t know,” Felicia said. “She snuck out, but something went wrong.”
“Did it have anything to do with Brett and Cheryl?”
“What?”
I was grasping at straws, but I needed to pivot the conversation. “I think you knew about Brett’s girlfriend,” I said, “and I’m trying to understand why you didn’t tell me. The only thing I can come up with is that she was more involved in your family’s life than you’re letting on.”
Felicia and my mother quirked their eyebrows at each other. So it wasn’t just my dad who had a secret language with Mom.
“I wasn’t lying about Cheryl,” Felicia said. “But I do remember the last time I saw Brett. It was that Saturday night. I didn’t know he was seeing Cheryl”—another glance at my mother—“but there was someone else.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “Another woman?”
“No. A girl.”
The room tilted. Next to Felicia, my mother’s face was stony.
Felicia said, “The weekend Brett was moving, the kids went to the movies.” She narrowed her eyes. “You were there. Abe and Crissy, too. Abe had just told me Brett quit his job and was moving away. I was very angry. Against my better judgment, I went looking for him.
“Russ Loming was always my first call,” she went on. “He told me he was meeting Brett at the drive-in. So after I dropped off the kids, I stayed. The place was crawling with people. It took half the movie for me to find him. He was parked back at the tree line near the picnic tables, as far away from the other cars as you could get. I was ready to give him hell, but when I got closer, I saw he wasn’t alone.” Felicia wrinkled her nose. “She was a high school girl, if I had to guess.”
“Christ,” I said. “What were they doing?”
“Talking. The girl looked upset. Brett put his hand on her shoulder. I think they kissed.”
What the hell? A second girlfriend meant another motive for Felicia to kill Brett. If this mystery girl knew her beau was headed out of Swanton, it might even mean another suspect. “What did the girl look like?” I asked. “Did you recognize her?”
Felicia shook her head. “She had dark hair, but I only got a glimpse of her face. If it was Cheryl, I’d have known it.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I left. He was with a girl who was clearly underage, and she didn’t seem displeased about it. What was I supposed to do? Seeing him with her, someone who might have been the same age as his own daughter, made me realize we were better off without him. So I went home. And that was the last time I saw him.”
“That’s all she knows,” Mom said. “Isn’t it, Fee?”
“That’s all.”
“You should have told me this sooner,” I said.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“So what changed?”
Felicia twined her fingers with Mom’s and held on tight. “Your mother told me what you do. I knew you were an investigator, but I didn’t really understand what that meant. I didn’t consider how hard it must be to solve a crime nineteen years after it was committed. I hated him sometimes,” she said, “but I do want to know who did this. Crissy and Abe were deprived of so much as children. The least I can do is help them get some closure about their dad.”
Closure, I thought. Is that what Bram wants?
It was what I wanted, but I had a feeling closure was a long way off yet.
TWENTY-THREE
Dinner was an hour of awkward pauses and forced chuckles—in other words, sheer anguish. Afterward, I took another walk down the block, alone this time. I tried to channel the feeling I’d gotten so good at embracing in A-Bay—Come on, asshole, here I am—but the familiar sense that Bram was watching was ill-defined. He might well be close, but his focus was on Trey. And that terrified me.
During the Tern Island case, Mac had been on the mainland, but we’d remained in close contact via phone. Being that it was my first case after New York, she was concerned about my mental state, and rightly so. As much as she needed to check in on my frame of mind, I’d needed her more. When I got to the corner of my street, I took out my phone and called her. I felt my limbs loosen when she picked up.
“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” she said when she answered. “We’re still searching.”
“Yeah, I heard the same from Tim. Got a sec anyway?”
Mac whistled, and the wet sound of happy panting filled my ears. I felt a pang of longing for little Whiskey. “There’s a beer in my hand and a dog in my lap. I’ve got all night,” she said.
“I found something. A tooth. I think it’s Trey’s.” I explained about the envelope on my bed, and the message within.
“Holy hell.”
“I know. I think it’s time to consider the possibility that Bram’s here in Swanton, and that he brought Trey.”
I gave her Harmison’s name and number. Mac promised to call him first thing in the morning. Then she asked after me.
“I’ll be honest,” I said. “Things aren’t great. I don’t mean I’m relapsing”—let’s be clear—“but I’m struggling.”
“You just lost your uncle; that’s hard on anyone. And I know how much you wish you could be back on the job.”
“Sure,” I said, “but Mac, a kid is missing, another innocent life thrown into the mix. Bram was supposed to come after me.”
“You wanted him to, maybe even convinced yourself he would. But you can’t fathom what goes on inside a lunatic’s head.”
“But that’s exactly what I need to do. I spent all that time with him: I should be able to figure this out. It doesn’t help that I’m following a million different lines of inquiry on Brett.”
The second I said it, I cursed myself and hung my head. I knew what was coming.
“Shana, are you investigating your uncle’s death?”
She was going to talk to Harmison. Mac would have found out anyway.
“Swear to God, you’re impossible,” she said when I made a hangdog confession. “That’s a conflict of interest, and you know it.”
“I’m helping. Nothing official.”
“That seems to be your MO these days.”
My face was hot. My body, too. I wriggled clumsily out of my jacket and folded it over my arm as I walked. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m fucking sorry. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Oh, Shana.”
&
nbsp; She waited for me to recover. I did my breathing, and closed my eyes. “When we were on Tern, Philip Norton told me he once found a deer on the island. It swam across the channel, all the way from the mainland. That’s me, Mac. I’m that deer in the river.”
“Don’t get all existential on me now.”
“No, listen. I’m paddling like crazy, but—”
“The currents.”
“Right. I’m not completely in control, but I have to keep going. I have to trust I’ll make it to shore. The thing is, I’m scared of what I’ll find when I get there.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “Just don’t let go of that trust.” Her words were like a gentle hand on my shoulder. “And let me give you some advice. Whatever happens from here on out, don’t make any decisions out of fear.”
“But that’s how I make all my decisions.”
Mac laughed. “Now,” she said, “what is it you want to ask me about your uncle’s murder?”
I smiled. There was no getting anything past Mac. “Have you ever worked a cold case?”
“Once or twice. It’s not easy, primarily because it puts investigators at a huge disadvantage against the offender.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, “the information you’re working with is decades old. But it’s not just that. Whoever did this has had years to plan what they’d say if someone came around asking questions. They’re bound to be prepared.”
She was right. Motives and timelines were relevant, but I was used to watching for nervous tics and suspicious behavior when I conducted interviews. I’d been trained to sniff out anger that never abated—but what I should be looking for was the opposite of that. Composure. Utter calm.
Those were the characteristics that would point me to Brett’s killer.
TWENTY-FOUR
I woke up the next morning to find Swanton had gotten its first snowfall of the season. It had let up, leaving the sky a cloudless blue, but the trees wore fur capes, and everything sparkled in the magical way that makes you forget winter’s flaws.
Verifying the address he’d provided, I drove to Russell Loming’s place and parked across the street. Given his appearance and oily demeanor at the plant, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he lived in one of the tumbledown farmhouses I’d seen on my way into town. I found none of that. Loming’s home was well maintained, and I arrived just in time to see a woman in her midsixties usher three small children into a car while a jolly Loming, dressed in a blue bathrobe, waved at them from the living room window. When he saw me emerge from my SUV, the smile melted from his face.
“Looks like you had a wild night,” I said when he opened the front door.
“Russ Jr.’s got the stomach bug. Gran and Pop to the rescue.”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Jesus.” He wasn’t subtle about weighing his options, but in the end he drew the robe across his chest and waved me inside. He seemed shorter to me than when I’d seen him at the factory, the result of poor posture. I suspected that had something to do with his embarrassing attire. “Look,” he said once I was in the front hall, “can we make this quick? I’m running late.” His hair was damp and there were several nicks on his neck that suggested he’d shaved in a hurry.
“The faster you answer my questions, the faster we’ll be done.”
With a sigh, Loming led me to the kitchen and reached for the coffeepot, filling a mug for each of us. Colorful cereal bowls and sturdy plastic spoons were strewn across the table, the detritus of a kid-friendly breakfast. Loming reached for the belt on his robe. He’d been a slimeball during our first meeting, and I half expected to be writing him up for indecent exposure once our meeting was through, but he only drew the belt tighter, slouched in place, and said, “Fire away.”
“My theory,” I explained, “is that Brett disappeared the weekend of June 20th. I have some new information about that Saturday. He went to the St. Albans drive-in. X-Files was playing. Sound familiar?”
“Ma’am, I can’t remember what movie I watched last week.”
“It was a long time ago. I get it. Just do your best.”
He furrowed his brow. “Yeah. I saw it.”
“With Brett?”
“Oh sure, we held hands across the console.” He rolled his eyes. “He was there. So was I. That was it.”
But Felicia had specifically said Loming had plans to meet Brett. It was because she was so sure Loming had been at the movie with my uncle that I’d decided to pay him another visit. That, and his status as the Swanton Police Department’s prime suspect. “So you went alone?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“There was a lot of hype about that movie. I, for one, was dying to watch it. Were you a fan of the TV series?”
“Not especially.”
“So why’d you go to the drive-in that night?” My gaze was drawn to the table once more. I thought of the son with the stomach bug, and the other one I knew from school. I set down the coffee Loming had handed me. “How old are your children, Mr. Loming?”
He ran his fingers across his burnished jaw. “Russ Jr.’s thirty-four and Max is two years younger. Why?”
I did the math and said, “That would make them, what, fifteen and thirteen that summer? Prime drive-in age. That movie was big with teenagers.” Just about everyone I knew had planned to be there for its release. “You didn’t bring them with you?”
Looking baffled, Loming said, “I guess they didn’t want to come.”
Or you didn’t want them around. “Did you talk to Brett while you were there?”
“Sure. We always parked in the same place, way off by the picnic tables.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Baseball. Politics. The weather.”
Asshole. “And money?”
Next to his history of assault, money was the reason the police chief was keeping a close eye on Loming. Loming sighed before he answered.
“Like I said, he owed me. Maybe two hundred. Not a lot.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“No!” The flesh on Loming’s healthy, freshly scrubbed cheeks dulled. With his buzz cut and his face bunched up with apprehension, he looked like an overgrown kid.
“Did you kill him because he didn’t have the money?” I said.
“What?” Loming gave a start, and his coffee splashed onto his robe. “God, no.”
“Brett was perpetually broke, always gambling away his earnings. Must have made you furious to know you’d never get that debt back.”
He cinched the belt on his bathrobe even tighter. “I knew he was leaving, so I went over to his car and I asked for the money. He promised he’d mail it to me once he got to Philly. It never came, but I really didn’t care.”
“So you didn’t argue or fight that night. Any witnesses to confirm what you’re telling me?”
“Witnesses! How am I supposed to know? It was dark out there, and I was talking to Brett.” Loming was starting to come apart. “I’m telling you the truth. I had nothing to do with Brett’s death.”
I studied him. The man wouldn’t quite meet my eye. I tried another angle. “Did you bump into anyone else that night? Anyone Brett knew?”
Whether it was the truth or not, I expected him to name Cheryl. If he was trying to protect himself by throwing me off track, staying consistent with his claim that Cheryl wasn’t happy about Brett’s intention to leave town would be the smart move.
Realizing he hadn’t taken a single sip of his coffee, Loming set down his cup and sank his hands into the pockets of his robe. “It was crowded. That movie was new, and people came from all over to see it. But I did recognize a few faces.” He rubbed his chin. “After I left Brett’s car, I saw Felicia.”
I felt my spine go taut as a wire. “What was she doing?”
“Just
walking. Searching for someone, looked like. I didn’t wait around to find out.”
“Anyone else?”
“Crissy was there, talking to another kid.” Loming shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “They were arguing. I didn’t envy Brett, thanked God every day I had sons and not daughters. With her looks and sass, the girl was a handful.”
That, too, was interesting. From what I could recall, Crissy had kept to her own friend group that night. I hadn’t seen much of her at all. If her disappearance and her father’s death were connected, her movements might matter just as much as Brett’s. I asked, “This kid she was talking to. Boy or girl?”
“It was a guy.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“I don’t know. It was dark.”
“Could you guess his age?”
“Same as Crissy, more or less.”
“How was Crissy acting?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you get the impression that she was on drugs?” I was thinking about my conversation with Felicia. She seemed to believe Crissy was given meth by her abductor, but methamphetamine can stay in your system for several days. Crissy was smoking pot by then, so while Felicia hadn’t mentioned her daughter was acting strange that night, it didn’t seem like a long shot to imagine Crissy could have taken the meth herself. That she’d been seen with a guy in the most remote part of the drive-in bothered me, too. I’d heard rumors—we all had—about the older kids going over there for drugs. A dark, quiet corner of a public place was usually a good place to score some dope.
“I don’t think she was high—she’d be crazy to do that with her dad around,” Loming said, “but she was definitely worked up. Whatever they were talking about, neither of them was happy.”
In the quadrant of my brain that churns out theories, a raw but meaty idea started to form. “I need you to be honest with me, Mr. Loming.” I softened my gaze as I said it, and hoped he’d interpret the act as assurance that I was on his side; I was looking for intel, nothing else. “You and Brett both arrived at the drive-in alone. You both made a habit of parking away from the crowd. I already know Brett met a woman at the movie. What I’m trying to understand is what brought you there.”