The Man from Primrose Lane: A Novel Page 12

  * * *

  You stupid poser! Who the fuck is this?

  It was a little past two in the morning. He was in his office rediscovering his Facebook profile. He was touched to see that he had over twenty-five hundred friends now, even if he didn’t know most of them. Several of his high school classmates were on there. Even Brian Pence—the football hero who’d once knocked him into a locker so hard he’d passed out. The instant message popped up next to a picture of Count Chocula, Katy’s avatar.

  It’s me, Kate. I repatriated my profile. Long story.

  Why r u up so late, old man?

  It’s hard to sleep the night before a trip.

  Where r u going? Can I come?

  Bellefonte, PA. I’m going to try to track down someone who knew the MFPL.

  Kool. Thanks for the shrooms and beer the other night.

  Welcome. Why are you still up?

  I’m 22. I’m just getting in.

  Right.

  How’s your toolbox bf?

  If we’re going to have a “thing” you can’t ask about him.

  Are we having a “thing”? Did something happen that I don’t remember?

  I mean, if you want to.

  Could you define “thing”?

  It’s ineffable.

  I should hope not.

  ? Oh. OK, maybe a little eff-able. ROFL. Seriously, can I come on your little trip? I don’t have to work again until Wednesday. ;)

  Man. Man oh man. As much as I hate to say no, I think I need to do this part alone.

  You sure?

  Not really.

  Well let me know if you change your mind.

  Will do.

  Sleep tight, professor.

  You too.

  Was that a butterfly fluttering inside his stomach? He wasn’t sure. It had been, after all, a very long time. But he thought it might be. And he thought that lone butterfly might be joined by friends as the medicine wore off. He hoped, anyway.

  * * *

  Our greatest moments of truth take place near toilets. The final purge of an alcoholic at rock bottom; the recognition of an eating disorder; a child’s first introduction to death, as his mother flushes the goldfish; and, here, David’s first step to reclaiming his mind.

  Maybe this isn’t such a hot idea, he thought. Why can’t I just be happy with Tanner and the life we’ve made? Why do I have to go back to this dark stuff?

  Because you love it, said a stronger voice—his true shadowed soul.

  Still, if it had just been crime writing he missed, he could have sacrificed that and stayed on the meds.

  I want to fall in love again.

  She’s not Elizabeth. You’ll never get her back.

  That’s true. But maybe it could still be something good.

  Three weeks’ worth of Rivertin plopped into the water. He looked at the pills for a moment. He felt nothing.

  * * *

  Sackett made David wait twenty minutes before he opened the reinforced door and led him toward the detectives’ office. “We’re in here today,” Sackett said, ushering David into a small room to his right.

  The room was cliché. Square. Plain. Drab. The only furnishings a steel table and three chairs. On the wall to their left was what appeared to be a large mirror, but which David knew must have been one of those see-through kinds they use in cop shows.

  “Cool,” said David. “This is a real interrogation room, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Sackett. The detective motioned for David to sit in the single chair on the opposite end of the table.

  As David sat, a second man entered the room and closed the door. He was a husky dude with a thick white handlebar mustache. He was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt snug around his biceps. A large gun with a bone-colored grip sat in a holster under his left arm.

  “This is ex–Special Agent Dan Larkey,” said Sackett. “He’s working the Joseph King case with me, a consultant with the Bureau.”

  “What’s up?” said Larkey, shaking his hand. The man’s voice was gravelly, his handshake firm and brief.

  “Nice to meet you,” said David.

  Sackett took a chair. Larkey remained standing, slowly rubbing his hands together as if he were warming them.

  “Has there been a development in the case?” asked David.

  “You could say there’s been a significant development,” said Larkey.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “We identified the fingerprint the FBI pulled from the bed board,” said Sackett.

  “Wow. That’s … that’s awesome,” said David. “Who is it?”

  “Guess,” Larkey said with a smile.

  “Hmmm,” said David. “Was it the Beachum kid?”

  “No,” said Larkey.

  “Hang on a second. I gotta check this out,” said David, standing up and walking over to the two-way mirror. “They really use these, huh? I thought everything would be video by now.”

  “We’re still behind the curve,” said Sackett.

  David cupped his hands to filter out the light and peered into the glass. He could make out a row of chairs and a desk and …

  “Shit!” yelled David. “Christ, that scared me.”

  “What?” asked Sackett.

  “There’s someone in there,” said David.

  “No shit,” said Larkey.

  Suddenly David’s face flushed. His heart raced, speeding up his metabolism, pushing the last of the Rivertin through his system. He turned to face the men in the room. They stared back at him.

  “Whose fingerprint was it?” asked David.

  “The fingerprint belonged to your wife,” said Larkey.

  David’s mind was a blank. His ears suddenly throbbed as if they were infected.

  “You know what makes a good detective, David?” asked Sackett. “Don’t answer. I’ll tell you. What makes a good detective is being able to recognize when a suspect does not act naturally. You have to notice when someone acts hinky. You know? Sometimes it’s the only warning you have that the guy you pulled over is going to draw a gun on you. The troublemakers, the guilty guys, they all act hinky. Not guilty. They don’t act guilty, necessarily. Just, you know, hinky. When I showed you the picture of the Man with a Thousand Mittens, the normal reaction would have been curiosity. But that’s not how you acted. You acted hinky. You acted like you knew him already.”

  “I didn’t. I told you I didn’t.”

  “But I didn’t believe you. And I got to thinking. Maybe … maybe … And I had a hunch. I expanded our fingerprint search to include the state educator’s database that catalogues public school teachers’ identification. That fingerprint we found on the bedpost matched Elizabeth’s. And then your reaction began to make sense.”

  “It was her left middle finger, David,” said Larkey, climbing onto the table like an old tomcat. “But it was found on the right side of the bed. She’d have to be laying on the bed like this…” The agent lay back on the desk and reached his left hand behind his head, grabbing an invisible bedpost. “Get it? She’s on her back and holding on to the post like this. She’s fucking him.”

  “I don’t know about fucking him,” said Sackett. “Probably another explanation, right? I mean, Elizabeth was a beautiful woman. And he was such an old man. I can’t picture it.”

  “The fingerprint got us a warrant, which got us into your secret lockbox in Mansfield,” said Larkey. “We found your nine-millimeter. Same caliber used on the Man from Primrose Lane.”

  “There was a lot of cash in there, too, and passports,” said Sackett. “You getting ready to leave? Taking a vacation?”

  “The gun’s in ballistics right now,” Larkey continued. “We’ll have the results tomorrow.”

  “Give me something,” said Sackett. “Elizabeth wasn’t sleeping with that old man. Couldn’t have been. What really happened, David?”

  He didn’t say anything. His mind wouldn’t move fast enough. Every time he tried to form a thought, something fizz
led against a connection inside his head.

  “Maybe she did give it up to him,” Larkey suggested. “Did you find out your wife was a whore, David?”

  David balled his fists. The light in the room grew gray, sparkling around the edges of his eyesight. He moved closer to the FBI man.

  “Back the fuck up,” said Larkey, rolling off the desk.

  “We disagree on the specifics, David,” said Sackett. “I know she was a good woman. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe you could help me understand.”

  He looked at the glass. The man he’d seen behind it had been dressed in a sharp suit. The prosecutor? Was he about to be arrested? Was this actually happening?

  “Why was she on his bed?” asked Sackett. “Help me out, David. Why’d you do it? What did you find out?”

  “Allow me to spin a yarn,” Larkey interrupted. “Famous writer figures out his wife’s having an affair with the village idiot. Writer surprises them at the man’s house. Shoots the guy. Wife kills herself out of shame and guilt and maybe just to get back at the writer. It’s a rough draft, but it has potential, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s ridiculous,” said David. “No fucking way.”

  “David,” said Sackett, leaning forward over Larkey’s body, “where were you on the night of June nineteenth, 2008?”

  He knew better. He didn’t say a word.

  “I know you killed this man,” said Larkey. “He may have cut off his own fingers for some fucked-up reason, but you put the bullet in his chest. And now you know I know.” He leaned to David’s ear so that his voice could not be picked up by the three audio recorders whirring in the next room. “I’m going to nail you for this, you fucking elitist fuck.”

  How many times had he written this scene? David wondered. At least a dozen. Every murder story had a scene like this. And once you got the suspect in this room, he knew, the questions would come like this, rat-a-tat quick, for hours, until he broke or asked for a lawyer. Sometimes, if it went on long enough, innocent men would confess just to be done with it. With his mind already compromised, he could not risk it. Of course, if he asked for representation and they already had an indictment, they’d cuff him, put him in a holding cell, and then take him to court to be arraigned. He’d have to post bond, but who knew how quickly Bashien could gather the money? He didn’t think they would have had time or evidence to present to a grand jury yet, though. Either way, he was done here. It was an acceptable risk. One Elizabeth would have signed off on.

  “I want to talk to my lawyer,” he said.

  Sackett exchanged a look with Larkey and then sighed. Sackett nodded and Larkey stepped to the door and opened it for David.

  So no cuffs. Not yet. But he could tell they thought it was inevitable.

  “Thank you,” said Larkey.

  “For what?”

  “This one thought you’d break. I bet him twenty you’d make it a challenge.”

  INTERLUDE

  THE BALLAD OF THE LOVELAND FROG

  1986 Halfway through Johnny Carson, the rotary phone on the side table by his father’s recliner rang out. Everett Bleakney, age nine, looked forward to these interludes in the middle of otherwise normal evenings. That particular phone had its own extension. It only rang if there was trouble. And when it rang during the weekends, Everett’s father had to take him along for the ride. That was the deal they had hashed out long ago.

  “Bleakney,” his father said into the phone. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Huh! Hurm. Uh. Uhuh. Yes, thank you.”

  Everett, lying on the living room floor, looked up.

  “Get your coat,” his father said.

  “Yes!”

  His mother, a gaunt woman who was reading Flowers in the Attic at a seat beneath a lamp in the corner, gave a curt sound of disapproval. “It’s late, hon.”

  “It’s just a drive-by,” his father said, standing up and drinking the rest of his Yuengling in one quick gulp. “Lana Deering saw some animal out on Twightwee.”

  “What kind of animal?” she asked without looking up.

  “Frog.”

  “A frog?”

  “A big frog.”

  “Okay, then. But don’t stay out. And don’t take him into Paxton’s.”

  “They don’t mind.”

  “I don’t want my son hanging out in bars.”

  “All right. No Paxton’s,” he said. But he winked at Everett in a conspiratorial way.

  * * *

  Everett sat in the passenger seat of his father’s cruiser, warming his hands against the dashboard vents. It was cool out tonight, too cool for early September. There might even be a frost on the corn come morning, the newspaper warned.

  “How big was the frog Mrs. Deering saw?” asked Everett.

  “‘Monstrous’ was the word she used, I think,” said his father. “At least that’s what Dory told me.” Dory was the Friday night dispatcher. “I guess it’s just sitting out there on Twightwee, out by Camp Ritchie. She thought it was dead, hit by a truck. Got to clear it off. Apparently, it cannot wait till morning.”

  Everett, who had imagined putting the frog in a bucket and bringing it back with them to live at the house, was visibly disappointed.

  “Might not be dead,” said his father. “Who knows? We’ll see.”

  Downtown Loveland was dark. The streetlights cut off at eleven p.m. every night, throwing the false-fronted retail stores into shadow. Everett was always a little unnerved to see his town like this. It was always so busy during the day: adults window-shopping, teen lovers strolling over the bridge that crossed the Little Miami, his classmates organizing games of pick-up in the park. But at night, it was like everyone had evacuated the place, like they knew something Everett and his father didn’t. Out by the river, though, two streetlights were always kept on: the one in front of Paxton’s Grill and the one in front of Stacey’s Drive-Thru. Everett’s father pulled into Stacey’s and drove around back to the entrance.

  The light inside was garish, an overly bright depot in the darkness, full of beer and tackle and chips. Stacey—a spindly thing with stinky cigarette smoke hair—was working, of course. She always was. And according to her version of this story, Everett’s father looked just fine when he pulled up to her register.

  “What’ll it be, Ev?” His name was Everett, too. Everett, his son, was actually Everett the Third.

  “Mountain Dews and Slim Jims, please. And a bag of pork rinds.”

  She gathered the goods and passed them along to the police chief. He handed her a five.

  “Where ya two headed?”

  “Twightwee, I guess.”

  “How come?”

  “Lana seen a frog out there, size of a Doberman.”

  “No kidding.”

  “That’s the word, Thunderbird.”

  “You know, my uncle once noodled a catfish as big as a mastiff. Ain’t never heard of a frog that big.”

  “Think your uncle was probably drinking some of that white lightning he makes in his shed, Stacey.”

  Everett giggled.

  “No doubt. No doubt,” she said. “Hey, Ev.”

  “Yes’m?”

  “You suppose it could have anything to do with that boomin’ we heard the other night?”

  “Boomin’?”

  “Yeah, like a thunderclap. Real loud. ’Round midnight. Some people over at Paxton’s said they heard it a couple nights in a row, but it was loudest the last time, two days ago.”

  “Nobody called it in to the station.”

  “No?”

  “No. Least not that I heard. And I didn’t hear it anyway.”

  “It was real loud, Ev. Some of us were thinking maybe it was a jet or something, ’cause Roldo was in the navy in Nam, you know? Anyway, Roldo says it was a sonic boom. I don’t know, ’cause I never heard one, but do you know of any jets coming down from Dayton or anything? Out of Wright-Pat, maybe?”

  “No, I ain’t heard nothing about that.”

  “Well, anyways. Sounded like it wa
s coming from the direction of Twightwee Road. Just thought they might be, I don’t know, connected.”

  “You never know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  As they drove out of Stacey’s and into the dark toward Twightwee Road, Everett sat up in his seat, smiling.

  “What?” his father asked.

  “You talk different around some people,” he said.

  “Part of the job,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair. “She’d think I was puttin’ on airs if I didn’t slip an ‘ain’t’ in every so often. People need to trust their police chief. It’s even okay if a couple of them actually think they’re smarter than me.” He laughed. “Now hand me a Slim Jim.”

  * * *

  Twightwee was a gravel road that bisected the Little Miami over an antebellum bridge. Everett’s father slowed the cruiser as they approached.

  “Spotlight,” Everett said.

  His father whirled the large spotlight around so that it pointed straight ahead and then pinged the “on” switch. The night retreated several yards around the bridge. The harsh light saturated the roadway, stealing color from the stones and scrub grass lining the edges. The road was empty.

  “Maybe it hopped back in the river,” said Everett.

  “Little farther.”

  The car edged forward. Everett rolled his window down. The sound of the tires pinching the gravel was loud but it was also an empty sound, a lonely sound. The air bit his cheeks and earlobes. As they passed over the river, the boy smelled the muddy water churning below—earth and grit and …

  “Dad?”

  “What’s up?”

  “You smell that?”

  There was something new, something alien in the air. Everett thought it smelled a little like a movie theater. His father’s first thought was of a wedding reception, carrying an Amaretto Sour back to Everett’s mother.

  “Almonds,” his father said. “And something else. Wheat? Beans?”

  “Alfalfa!” Everett said.

  “Yep. Alfalfa. Odd.”

  The car rolled on. There were no houses out here and the woods were slowly devouring the road; tufts of bluegrass reached for the car and scraped gently along Everett’s door like soft fingernails.