by Shari Lapena
Calvin sits back in his chair, which squawks a little, and is quiet, obviously thinking. Then he leans forward again and places both hands on his desk. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Calvin says. “We’re going to see if they come up with enough to charge you. I’m sure they will, once they identify him. The circumstantial evidence is strong—it will be enough. But it’s another matter to prove it at trial.”
“But—” Karen blurts out.
Calvin looks at her enquiringly. “But what?”
“I couldn’t have killed him,” she says firmly. “I couldn’t have,” she repeats. “I don’t think I’m capable of it.”
Her lawyer and her husband look at her. Tom quickly glances away, almost as if he’s embarrassed. But the lawyer stares at her.
Calvin says, “Who do you think might have killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you take a guess?”
She glances at Tom and then looks back at the lawyer again. “He might have had enemies.”
“What kind of enemies?”
“Business enemies.”
“What kind of business was he in?” the lawyer asks.
“He was an antiques dealer.” She adds, “I’m not sure all of his business dealings were entirely on the up and up, but I knew better than to ask. He knew some shady people.”
There’s a silence in the room that seems to stretch on forever. Karen sits completely still in her chair. The thought of going to trial for murder terrifies her. Sitting in the lawyer’s office, she realizes it’s too late. I should have run, she thinks.
Finally she says, “Detective Rasbach is expecting me at the station.”
“You’re not going,” Calvin says. “When they think they’ve got enough, then let them arrest you. Now—tell me more about how you got away from Robert Traynor.”
She tells him everything—about the months of planning, how she squirreled money away, all the while secretly visiting a women’s shelter for support, and finally what she did that day at the Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge. She adds in a dull voice, “In a way it was easy, because I had no family to leave behind. My parents were dead, I had no siblings. We had no life insurance policy on me, so I knew the insurance companies wouldn’t be looking into it. I thought I could pull it off, and I was desperate. I didn’t think I had anything to lose.”
When she’s finished, there’s a long silence.
Then Calvin asks, “What did you do with the pack?”
“Oh yes, that.” She pauses, remembering. “I had to get rid of it, but I couldn’t just toss it out the window. Everything in it could be traced back to me. So I added some heavy rocks to it and dropped it off a bridge into a lake in the middle of the night.”
Tom looks at her as she says this, and then averts his eyes, as if he can’t bear to imagine her doing it.
“I know it makes me seem cold-blooded,” Karen says, eyeing each of them almost defiantly. “But what would you have done in my place?” When neither man answers, she says, “Right, you would never be in my place. How wonderful for you—how easy it must be to be a man.”
Tom shoots her a conciliatory look, as if he personally wants to make up for every lousy male on the planet.
She says to him, “I kept thinking I would tell you at some point.” She asks him now, ignoring the lawyer, as if he weren’t even in the room, “When should I have told you? Right at the beginning? What would you want with a woman who’d run away from her life and had a fake ID? Later on? You would have felt hurt, lied to—like you do now. The truth is, there was never a good time to tell you.” She’s almost matter of fact. She isn’t exactly apologizing. She did what she had to do. And this is the result.
Tom squeezes her hand. But he isn’t looking at her. He’s looking down at her hand, in his.
Chapter Thirty
As they leave Calvin’s office, the lawyer tells them, “It probably won’t be long before they identify the victim, and then things are going to get tense. You’ve got to be prepared for that.” He looks them both in the eye. His gaze lingers longer on Tom, as if he can sense that of the two, Tom is the least prepared for what’s going to happen.
Tom suspects he’s right. His wife is much stronger than he ever realized. He can’t imagine cold-bloodedly faking his own death to escape a maniac, and starting over as someone else. She must have nerves of steel, he thinks. He’s not sure he likes thinking of her that way.
As they make their way back to the car in the parking lot, Tom is utterly terrified. Their lives are going to enter a whole new realm of awful. She will probably be charged with murder. She will have to go to trial. She may even be convicted. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough for this, if their love for each other can survive what’s ahead.
Tom drives, focusing on the road in front of him, mostly because he doesn’t want to look at his wife. But he can feel her eyes on him.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she says. “I didn’t want to do this to you.”
He doesn’t trust his voice to answer. He swallows, and keeps his eyes straight ahead.
“I never should have agreed to marry you without telling you everything,” she whispers, distraught.
It dawns on him then—they’re not really married. On the day of their wedding, she was already legally married to someone else. The thought makes his head spin. She stood beside him when they were saying their vows—and she knew she was already married to somebody else. Her vows were meaningless. He has to resist the urge to stop the car suddenly and tell her to get out.
Somehow, he keeps driving. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.” He’s saying it automatically; he doesn’t believe it.
Maybe if he could just hold her, without looking into her eyes, he would be all right. He needs a moment to ground himself again so that he can go on, but he’s driving the car.
They ride in silence. As they reach home, he tells her, “I have to go back to the office for a bit, not for long. I’ll be home soon, for supper.”
She nods. “Okay.”
He stops in their driveway, and before she gets out of the car, he leans over and hugs her tight. For that moment, he tries to forget everything that’s happened, and to focus on how it feels to have her in his arms. Then he pulls away from her and says, “Don’t run. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He holds her eyes with his; even now, he doesn’t know if he believes her. Is this what life is always going to be like now?
Tom lets her go and then reverses the car and heads back downtown. He has no intention of returning to work. He heads back to his spot by the river, wishing he could wash himself clean of the whole sordid business, but knowing that he cannot—not now, not ever.
—
Brigid had been making a little baby sweater in pale yellow for a friend who was expecting, but found she couldn’t bear it, so she’s switched to a colorful striped fall sweater for herself. But now the half-finished garment trails off her lap as she watches the house across the street. Her body tenses, and she leans forward slightly.
She sees Tom and Karen pull into the driveway and stop, but instead of getting out of the car, they sit there for a moment. Brigid waits expectantly. Now Karen’s getting out and Tom isn’t. Brigid wonders where they’ve been. She thinks a lot about Tom and Karen, about where they are and what they’re doing, about their life together. It’s like she’s caught up in a particularly good television show and can’t wait to see what happens next.
Bob tells her that she’s obsessive. He complains that it’s not normal. He tells her she’s become obsessed with the Krupps’ lives because she’s lonely and bored and has nothing to do all day. He tells her she’s too smart to be doing nothing.
But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know.
She watches Tom reverse the car and head back down the street—she can see throu
gh the open car window that his face is set and grim. She wonders if they’ve been arguing. She turns her attention to Karen, now unlocking the front door. She can sense discouragement in the way Karen carries her shoulders. Maybe they have argued.
Brigid puts her knitting aside, grabs her keys, and locks her own door behind her. She walks over to Karen’s house and rings the bell.
When Karen opens the door and sees her, Brigid thinks she looks slightly reserved, even unwelcoming. Why isn’t Karen happy to see her?
“Hi, Brigid,” Karen says, not opening the door wide. “I just got home. I’ve got a headache. I was actually just going to lie down for a bit before supper.”
“Oh,” Brigid says. “I thought you looked like you could use a friend.” She gives Karen the warmest smile she knows how. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” Karen says.
Brigid stands her ground until Karen opens the door wider, and then she steps over the threshold.
They settle in the living room. Karen looks exhausted. Her eyes are puffy, as if she’s been crying, and her hair has lost its shine. How much she’s changed in just a few days, Brigid thinks. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” she says. “It might help.”
“Nothing’s going on,” Karen says, running a hand through her lank hair.
But Brigid knows she’s lying. She’s been watching everything unfold from across the street. And Karen looks far too distressed for nothing to be going on. She’s not a fool; she wishes Karen wouldn’t take her for one.
“Is everything all right between you and Tom?” Brigid asks bluntly.
“What? What do you mean?” Karen says, clearly taken aback.
“Well, I just saw him drive away, and he looked angry. And you seem upset. This must be hard for him, all of this,” Brigid says delicately, “the accident, the police.” As Karen stares back at her, she amends, “For both of you.” Karen shifts her eyes away, toward the window. After a short silence, Brigid asks, “Have you remembered anything helpful to the police?”
“No,” Karen says, rather sharply. “How have things been with you?” she asks, trying to change the subject.
“Karen, this is Brigid you’re talking to. You can tell me anything.” She means it. It annoys her that Karen’s so tight-lipped; she doesn’t disclose many of the intimate details of her life. Brigid has told Karen about her difficulties getting pregnant, her failed fertility treatments. But Karen never shares. Even now, when things are far from perfect, and you’d think she’d need a friend. How shocking it must be for Karen, she thinks suddenly, that things aren’t absolutely perfect.
Things should be more equal between friends, Brigid believes, and as far as she’s concerned, Karen hasn’t done as good a job at their friendship as she could have. Brigid has worked very hard at this friendship. Karen has no idea how hard it’s been, how much she’s had to swallow. Karen doesn’t know about her and Tom, how difficult it’s been for her, all this time, watching Karen and Tom together. Having to pretend it doesn’t bother her. So many times she’s been tempted to blurt it out, but she’s always bitten her tongue.
Karen’s never taken that great an interest in Brigid’s life, really, Brigid thinks now. Not as great an interest as Brigid has taken in hers. For instance, Karen has never shown much curiosity about her knitting blog, something that has always bugged her. Brigid Cruikshank is a goddess among online knitters. But Karen doesn’t knit, and she doesn’t care.
Karen looks at her now and says, “I appreciate your concern, Brigid, I really do. You’re a good friend.” She smiles at Brigid. Brigid smiles back mechanically. “You know, my headache’s getting worse. I should probably lie down,” Karen says. She gets up off the sofa and walks Brigid to the door.
“I hope you feel better,” Brigid says, and gives Karen a brief hug.
Then she walks back across the street to her own empty house, and takes up her position at the window with her knitting, to wait for Tom to come home.
—
It’s grown late in the afternoon, and it seems clear that Karen Krupp isn’t going to show up voluntarily. Rasbach is pondering next steps when Jennings enters his office and says, “We might have something.” Rasbach lifts his eyes. “I just got a call from a pawnbroker I spoke to after we found the body. He says a boy just pawned a watch and a ring.”
“Does he know the boy?”
“Yup.”
“Let’s go,” Rasbach says, grabbing his shoulder harness and his jacket.
When they arrive at Gus’s Pawn Shop, the place is empty except for the owner standing behind a grimy counter. The man nods at Jennings, recognizing him, and chews the inside of his cheek.
“This is Gus,” Jennings says, introducing him to Rasbach. The man nods. “Want to show us what you’ve got?” Jennings asks.
The man dips below the counter and brings out a man’s watch and lays it on the glass counter. Beside it he places a heavy gold ring.
The detectives take a look. “Looks expensive,” Rasbach says.
“Yup. Genuine Rolex.”
Rasbach pulls on a pair of latex gloves and examines first the watch and then the ring for any identifying marks or engraving, but there’s nothing. He puts the items back down on the counter, disappointed.
“How did the boy say he came by these?” Rasbach asks.
“He said he found them.”
“What’s his name?” Rasbach asks.
“Here’s the thing,” Gus says. “I know the kid. He’s only fourteen years old. I don’t want him to get into a lot of trouble.”
“I understand,” Rasbach says. “But we need to know if he found anything else, any ID along with the jewelry. Something that will help us with our investigation. We don’t think this boy had anything to do with the murder.”
“I just want you to scare him,” Gus says. “Like, scare him straight, you know? Too many kids get into crime around here. I don’t want to see him go down that road.”
“Sure. I get that,” Rasbach says, nodding. “What’s his name?”
“Duncan Mackie. Lives over on Fenton. Number 153. I know the family. Go easy on him. But not too easy.”
Rasbach and Jennings drive to the address Gus gave them. Rasbach’s hoping that this is the lead they’ve been waiting for. He knocks on the front door of the shabby house. He’s relieved when a woman answers, because he can’t talk to the boy without a responsible adult present. Rasbach says, “Are you Duncan Mackie’s mother?” The woman immediately looks alarmed. When he shows his badge, she looks worse.
“What’s he done?” the woman asks, dismayed.
“We just want to talk to him,” Rasbach says. “Is he home?”
She steps back from the door and lets the detectives in. “Duncan!” she hollers up the stairs. Rasbach and Jennings sit in the tiny kitchen and wait.
The boy comes down the stairs, sees the detectives sitting in his kitchen, and stops dead. He looks at his mom nervously.
“Sit down, Duncan,” the woman says sternly.
The boy sits and stares at the table. His face is flushed and sullen.
Rasbach says, “Duncan, we’re police detectives. You don’t have to talk to us. You can ask us to leave if you want. You’re not in custody.” The boy says nothing, but looks up at him cautiously. Rasbach says, “We’re interested in the watch and the ring that you left with Gus.”
The boy squirms and says nothing, while his mother glares at him.
“We just want to know if you found a wallet, too. Something with identification in it.”
“Fucking Gus,” the boy mutters.
“Duncan!” his mother says harshly.
Rasbach says, “If you have the wallet, maybe we can let this go.”
It seems to dawn on the mother then why they’re here. “This isn’t about that dead man that wa
s found near here, is it?” Her face is stricken.
The boy looks nervously at his mother, and then at the detectives. “He was already dead when we got there. I can get the wallet.”
His mother covers her mouth with her hand.
“I think that would be a good idea,” Rasbach says. “Because this is making your mother very upset, Duncan. And I think it would be better to come clean and turn over a new leaf before it’s too late. You don’t want to be arrested, do you?”
The boy shakes his head. “I’ll get it.” He looks at his mother. “You stay here.” Then he bolts back upstairs, where he obviously has a hiding place he doesn’t want his mother to know about.
After a strained moment, they hear him pounding down the stairs and he reappears in the kitchen. He hands a leather wallet over to Rasbach. It still has a few bills in it.
Rasbach takes the wallet from him and opens it. Pulls out a driver’s license. “Thanks, Duncan.” He gets up.
Jennings turns to the boy on their way out and gives him a friendly look. “Stay in school,” he says.
As they walk to the car, Rasbach says with satisfaction, “We’ve got him. Robert Traynor, of Las Vegas, Nevada.” He feels the familiar adrenaline surge he gets when a case begins to move. They get into the car and head back to the police station.
Soon Rasbach is reviewing some very interesting material. The dead man, Robert J. Traynor, was thirty-nine years old, a successful dealer in antiques. No children. His wife, Georgina Traynor, had predeceased him about three years earlier. Rasbach looks at a photo of Georgina. He leans forward, examines it more closely. Imagines her with shorter, darker hair. He looks again at the dates.
Bingo. Georgina Traynor isn’t dead. She’s alive and well, and living at 24 Dogwood Drive.
Chapter Thirty-one
Karen climbs upstairs and lies down on the bed, relieved to be alone. Brigid had made her feel uncomfortable. Maybe a nap before Tom gets home will help get rid of her pounding headache.
She is rigid on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. She’s going to be charged with murder.