by Joe Clifford
“Why’d you show me?”
Smitty pointed past her shoulder at Nick. “He seems fond of you, and holding on to them pictures wasn’t doing nobody no good. This town ain’t been right since that happened. Sounds wonky, but—you believe in ghosts, spirits?” Smitty shook himself off. “Sorry. Like I said. I don’t get a lot of company. Sometimes my brain gets screwy ideas.”
Alex tried to reconcile what Greg Judd said about Dan Brudzienski keeping a journal. But this book didn’t belong to him. This was Benny and Kira’s diary. Two independent lives coalesced into one large keepsake, kept in a shoebox, preserved for posterity.
“You can keep it,” Smitty said. “Maybe give the pictures to his family. Benny’s brothers might find comfort seeing life on the farm before everything went to hell.”
Stan “Smitty” Supinski obviously didn’t know the Brudzienski brothers.
Alex thanked him for his time.
Nick followed Alex, who toted the shoebox and diary under her arm, outside into the nippy fall air and gusting gray winds. “What are you thinking?”
“There was a time discrepancy, right? Between when Kira went missing and Benny was run down.”
“A week or so.”
“He never returned to the farm. I’m betting that’s where he was hiding out.”
“Why would he be hiding out if he didn’t kill her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he saw who really did? Knew they were coming for him?”
“You heard Supinski. He said he checked those sheds every day. No book. Certainly no Benny.”
“He also admitted being a drunk. Alcoholics forget things, overlook what’s in plain sight, get dates wrong. I’m just glad he gave it to us and not the police. They could use it to say Benny was a creeper.”
“Maybe he was. Ever think we got it wrong?”
“We?”
“I’m right here with you, Alex.”
She shook the shoebox. “What this shows me is that there was more to Benny Brudzienski. You saw the pictures. He cared about her.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Waiting on phone calls. Trying to track down one of Kira’s exes. You?”
Nick pointed at the speakers. “Gotta bring these bad boys up to Saratoga. In the slow lane. I won’t be home till late. Should be able to catch a late bite before bed, if you want to wait up.”
Alex laughed.
“What?”
“Sounds like we’re living together.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. Sounds nice.” She felt her cheeks flush and turned toward the speeding cars on the turnpike.
“You have the keys,” he said. “Make yourself at home. We can figure out something when I get back.” Nick made like he was going to hug her goodbye, then turned quick and climbed in his cab, rolling out of the park.
Alex was almost to the turnpike when her cell buzzed with a restricted number. Her only thought was Yoan Lee must be calling again with more demands. But it wasn’t Yoan.
“Why are you asking about me?” the man snapped. “If this is about the money that bitch ran up on my card, I’ve already talked to my bank, I’m not on the hook, call her—”
“Who is this?”
“Who’s this?”
“Alex Salerno.”
There was a long pause on the other end as if the man were weighing all his options, trying to figure out if admitting his name somehow snagged him, got him on the hook or into further trouble, like being served an official summons.
There must’ve been no angle he could find, because he said, “This is Sharn DiDonna. What do you want?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IHOP was an odd choice for a meet and greet. Given the recent improvements in Reine, there were better places to eat, tastier food, stronger drinks. Alex had suggested Java the Hutt’s, but Sharn DiDonna dismissed the pop-up coffee bar as “hipster bullshit.”
Alex arrived first, watching from her booth as he pulled up in a shiny sports coupe. With the weather and how far away he parked, Alex couldn’t tell what kind of car it was. Only that it cost more than any car she’d ever drive. The Idlewild’s half-lit yellow sign glowed weakly in the gloaming.
With his slicked hair and ironic shirt collar popping out of thrift store sweater, Sharn DiDonna didn’t come across as a townie or someone who worked in the mills. And he was far too flippant for Uniondale. He projected a guy who chameleoned at will, slipping in and out of whatever world he needed to occupy at that particular moment for the greatest personal gain. Alex knew he had chosen this restaurant because of its proximity to the murder scene. It added to the kitsch appeal.
“I know you aren’t a reporter for The Codornices,” Sharn DiDonna said, sliding opposite and immediately snapping at the waitress.
“Yeah? And why’s that?”
“Because the guy who edits the goddamn thing crews with a good friend of mine.” Sharn picked up sugar packets, shaking the contents and snapping the bottoms like they were gram bags. “Noah Lee is a privileged, lazy fuck. Did he mention his father is Yoan Lee? From the Post?”
“He said his dad’s a famous journalist, yes.” She wasn’t giving him more than that. “I’m not a big newspaper reader.”
“Yet reporter is the cover story you went with?” Sharn shook his head. “Noah has a morbid fascination with the Shanks case. Like some people obsess over the identity of D.B. Cooper, or whether Frank Morris and the Anglins made it out of Alcatraz alive. I don’t know what fairy tale he sold you. But every word out of his mouth is a goddamn lie.”
The waitress poured a cup of piping black coffee. Sharn smirked and waited till she was gone. Then didn’t say anything else. The entire time he refused to meet Alex’s gaze, he spun the condiment carousel, glanced at his cell phone, anywhere but her eyes. He wasn’t intimidated. More hyperaware of his own person, like a celebrity scared of being recognized in public. There was no one else in the restaurant. Alex got the impression of an actor playing a character, one he’d embodied so long the performance had become a permanent part of his person. Like Johnny Depp after Pirates.
“Why are you talking to me?” she said.
“You called me.”
“Yeah, but why make the drive? If you know I’m not writing any article. It’s clear you don’t give a shit about unsolved mysteries.”
“I hate this town. Hate the phony pricks at Uniondale almost as much as I hate the posers I ran with in high school.” He laughed, spreading his arms in a show of magnanimity. “I’m a man without a country. I don’t know why I agreed to meet you. I like to stir the pot? Some people call me a contrarian. Maybe I’m bored on a Tuesday afternoon. Why? You want me to leave?” He pretended the threat was genuine but didn’t move. “You want to know about Kira’s friends? About Trista and Meaghan and those Plotter Kill kids? Sure, I know things. But I’m not helping Noah Lee.”
“I couldn’t care less about helping Noah. Or the paper. Or the college.” She stared through the rain-rivered window. “Or this town.”
“That,” Sharn said, pointing a finger, “is why I agreed to talk to you.” A grin crept up his pretty-boy face.
Alex felt for the phone in her pocket, wishing she could open a recording app without him noticing. Sharn would never consent to going on record but she wanted to capture it all. She knew this was going to be good.
“When Kira got to town,” Sharn began, “she was all anyone could talk about. You know what she looked like, right?”
“I’ve seen pictures.” Yes, Kira Shanks was beautiful, with long, wavy blonde hair and baby blue eyes, the composite sketch of a million teenage boys’ fantasies.
“If you’ve only seen pictures,” Sharn said, tapping into brainwaves, “they don’t do her justice. There are some girls, women, whose beauty cannot be contained by a camera lens. I’ve also known women who look fantastic in photographs, but when you see them in person, they disappo
int. Kira had it both ways. Gorgeous in pictures, and radiant in person.”
“I didn’t know you were such a poet.”
“I play in a band. What can I say? I’m a hapless romantic. Beauty cut down in its prime is always tragic.”
“You act like you know she’s dead.”
Sharn creased his brow, reaching for more sugar. “Of course she’s dead.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Um, because Benny Brudzienski killed her? Everyone knows that. No one’s seen Kira Shanks in seven years. Someone dumped her body in the river. She’s far out to sea by now, fish food, baby. What other possibility could there be?” There was a winking smile in his eyes, like everything he said was both a joke and the gospel truth at once.
“You wouldn’t be here if you really thought that.”
“I don’t go for conspiracies.”
Sharn DiDonna was exactly the kind of guy who went for conspiracies. Otherwise where was the challenge? Winks, nudges, elbows on the sly. And shame on you if you believed a word he said.
“When I was dating Trista, I was also fucking Kira.”
“Seems to be a common story.”
“Yes. It is. While Jeremy Fisk was dating Patty, he was fucking Kira. Same with Peter, Mark, Rich, and, well, you get the point. Kira was very popular. You talk to her parents?”
“I heard they moved out of town.”
“Doesn’t mean they can’t be tracked down? Maybe journalism isn’t in your cards after all. Kira was a troubled girl.” Sharn picked up a butter knife, drawing it achingly across his wrists and forearm, etching tiny crosses. “Cutter,” he whispered, glancing at the long-sleeved hoodie Alex still wore inside.
The waitress headed over to see if anyone wanted food, but Sharn shook her off. A pro used to high school kids ordering French fries and ice water without leaving a tip, the waitress turned on a heel, resigned to the lost cause. Sharn was just getting warmed up.
“Benny was in love with Kira,” he said. “As much as a thing like him can love. I’m sure you figured that out by now.”
“I’ve figured out a lot of things. I’m more interested in what you think.”
Sharn threw a loose arm over the backrest of the adjacent, empty booth, kicking a foot in the aisle. He jumped the salt shaker like it was a chess piece. “I think those girls—Meaghan, Trista, Patty, Jody, a couple others whose boyfriends Kira was fucking on the side—I think they all got together, waited till Kira was in a room with one of these guys—” He stopped like he knew what she was thinking. “Hey, it wasn’t me. I mean some other guy, someone not part of that crew, a stranger, long-haul trucker, random lay from the bar, whatever. I think they waited till Kira and this dude are getting it on, tell Benny to go to the room—everyone knew Benny was in love with her—they say there’s a surprise waiting for him.” Sharn pointed out the glass, toward the Idlewild and number eight. “Benny goes in, sees Kira and some guy bumping uglies—she liked it freaky—he loses his shit. Might’ve been an accident, maybe he didn’t mean to do it. Who knows? But here’s the deal: Benny couldn’t cover up a murder of that magnitude. He’s too stupid. What did he do with the body?”
“You said he dumped her in the river.”
“No. I said someone dumped her in the river. Someone helped cover it up.”
“You got any proof?”
“If I could prove anything, I would’ve told the cops.”
Or not. Alex couldn’t picture Sharn going to the authorities. But he was aching to share just the same. All she had to do was sit back and listen.
Sharn returned to real cool customer, fingers tapping a smooth beat against the booth. “Everyone I saw in the aftermath acted odd. I was already done with Trista and the rest of those losers. But I remember seeing them around town, huddled together, nibbling nails, biting tongues, shushing any time I got within ear distance. Not hard to put two and two together. At least not for someone who used to be a part of that scene. Those girls were jealous as hell of Kira. This was payback.”
“Okay,” Alex said, buying in while reserving doubts—Sharn made no bones about axes to grind. If she could weed out the personal vendetta, a lot of what he said rang true. “And then what? These girls chase Benny down, beat him half to death?” A few post-graduation pounds aside, those four weren’t getting the jump on a man the size of Benny Brudzienski. “Or are you saying they had their ‘dopey boyfriends’ do it? That’s a lot of people expected to keep a secret. You know what they say about keeping secrets in a small town?”
“Yeah. Only way to keep a secret is if one of you is dead.” He winked. “If I were you, I’d be looking at Cole Denning. You know who he is?”
Alex had to admit the name had flashed on her radar once, twice, or half a dozen times.
“He was older, worked at the motel too, used to rent rooms to high school kids, buy them booze to party. He was desperate for them to think he was cool. Cole’s old man had been bagging Evie Shuman for years. She inherited the place after her husband died. That’s why Cole always has a job, doing repairs and shit. Been working there for forever. Hardly dependable.” Sharn tipped back an invisible glass of booze. He pointed around her, out in to the murky gray, where gravel lot met winding road, face feigning whimsical. “Maybe that was an accident, too, Benny getting run off the road. No streetlights along that stretch. It had been raining, dark. A car clips him, sends him into that ditch. Where Benny bashes his own head against a rock. Repeatedly. Stranger things have happened.”
“I thought you said you don’t believe in conspiracies?”
“I don’t.” Sharn set down his coffee. “I know who you are. I know what happened to you.” He panned around the empty restaurant as the light rain began to fall harder. “That’s why I’m telling you all this.”
“Why?”
“Because you care about the truth more than the cops. You know what it’s like, don’t you? The cops around here, they aren’t interested in solving squat. A town like Reine rakes in tourist dollars whenever the leaves change color. Get a bunch of morons up from Connecticut to watch something die so they can sell more maple syrup. Why else is anyone coming up to this shitburg? Better to blame one bad apple than the whole damn tree. Ken Parsons. Ben Brudzienski. Lone gunmen are easier to stomach than systematic patterns of violence.”
“You sound like a college student.”
Sharn held up his hands. “Guilty. Criminology and urban statistics. But not Uniondale. Fuck those bourgeois pricks. But it doesn’t make what I’m saying any less true. There is something wrong with this town. You grew up here. You must’ve seen it.”
“What’s that? An evil hanging over the place? A harbinger of doom?”
“Nothing so esoteric or gothic, please. I’m talking about the kids, today’s youth, the bleak landscapes, no faith in the future. The despondency. The sickness. You travel a lot?”
“I wouldn’t say a lot.”
“Take it from me, then. I’ve been all over, okay? I grew up in Reine, but Dad’s family has money. When my folks split up, they took him back, we got paid, and I did a lot of sightseeing. Up and down the coast. Overseas. Backpacking to Ibiza.” He swung his arms wide. “Counting cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, all across America.”
“Then back to college.”
“Education is important. My point—there’s nowhere like Upstate New York. It’s a dirty, ugly place that’s never possessed the hope to lose. Look at this town. I’m telling you, it breeds cruelty, nastiness.” Sharn glanced down at his buzzing phone. “And on that note.”
He hopped up, pulled his money clip, plucked a five spot. “Nice meeting you.” Bluetooth to ear, he held out a finger. “Yeah. Hold up.” He looked her dead on. “Be careful.”
As Sharn talked business down the aisle and out into the monsoon, she knew he meant more than Benny, Kira, or even this town. He was cautioning against something far more sinister.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
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br /> The rains kicked up when Alex stepped out of the restaurant, that distinct wind and raw howl you only get in Upstate New York. Dead, wet leaves lifted off the ground, swirling, infused with the charged scent of decay. She may not have traveled much but Alex knew these storms were germane to the region. You didn’t get storms like this in the city or Connecticut or anywhere else for that matter. Of course Alex didn’t have an umbrella with her. Though her car was a few feet away, she saw the yellow Idlewild sign, beckoning with answers. She lifted her hoodie and collar and made a run for it as the skies opened in earnest.
Pushing through the door, rainwater sloshing the mat, Alex saw the broad back of Evie Shuman camped out in front of the blue-gray glow of her television. With the powerful shudder blowing through the open door, you’d think the old woman would be incited to sneak a peek. But she remained frozen in front of her TV, back turned, even after Alex offered a courtesy cough. Alex had started to creep forward, wondering if the old woman was dead, when Evie Shuman shot around.
With the motel just across the way, Alex wanted to take the opportunity to verify Sharn’s claims. The guy oozed smarmy charm, with plenty of balls to bust, but something about his version carried more weight than any other story she’d heard. As soon as Alex’s eyes met Shuman’s disapproving scowl, she regretted that decision. Any trace of familiarity gone, the only thing left in its place: hard-country mean. Alex noted the bottle of rye clutched in a clenched fist, like a desperate Baptist and a Bible. The way Evie Shuman greeted her—hissing at the intruder in the nest—Alex felt the need to reintroduce herself. Maybe the old woman had forgotten who she was?
Alex extended a hand, pulling it back as fast when she realized the feeling wasn’t mutual. “Remember? We talked the other day? I was here with—”
“I know who you is. You said you was with the newspaper.”