Have You Seen Me?(66)

I skim the articles, looking for any other references to Tuesday, the day Jaycee most likely was murdered, but there’s just one. Several Millerstown residents reported seeing Jaycee with her mother at a supermarket late Tuesday morning, at around eleven.

My mind scrambles, trying to gather all the pieces of information into a coherent pattern before they’re caught by the wind and lifted away. As the waiter sets down the pasta bowl in front of me, I fish out a pen and pad from my purse and start doing the math.

Knowing what I now know about rigor, Jaycee died twelve to twenty-four hours before I found her, which means between midday on Tuesday and 3:00 A.M. Wednesday morning. It seems highly possible that Jaycee was murdered in the hours before Audrey went to work and Wargo left town.

So, which one of them delivered the blow or blows to Jaycee’s head? Audrey, in a rage over spilled apple juice or a bathroom accident or whining that wouldn’t cease? Or the boyfriend, who had that long haul to Georgia ahead of him and might have already popped a handful of uppers, fueling his fury over a tiny infraction by a toddler? If it was Wargo, Audrey had covered for him. If it was Audrey, she probably convinced Wargo to help her dispose of the body.

It’s clear the couple needed Jaycee’s disappearance to coincide with times when they each had as good an alibi as possible. By choosing Wednesday, Wargo had a built-in one—his trip down south, easily documented. Audrey’s situation was trickier, so she must have had to work on her mother.

And the friend’s visit on Wednesday could have been concocted for Audrey’s benefit. “Why don’t you come by in the morning” . . . “Oh, hey sorry, I was still sleeping, worked late last night. Lemme get my kid up, okay?”

I turn my attention to the bowl in front of me, which brims with linguine and clams the size of tiny buttons. So sublime looking, but my appetite has turned, and the pasta smells like I’ve pressed my face against the pilings of a dock. I can’t bear the thought of eating it.

I butter a piece of bread and take a bite, along with a few sips of sparkling water.

If my theory about the crime is right, I realize, Audrey and Wargo had been extremely lucky. The woods had been a stupid place to hide the body, perhaps chosen in a frenzied rush. If someone else had stumbled across Jaycee’s body on Wednesday and reported it that day, the police would have noted the rigor. That would have stripped them of their alibis.

Despite how dispassionate Corbet seemed when I pressed her about the potential impact of my statement, she must have been agog on the inside. My admission could change everything. And it’s clear to me now that there are two people in this world to whom I pose a terrible threat.

By this point the smell of clam brine is nearly making me gag, and I push the bowl even farther away. I signal for the check and apologize to the waiter for my hasty departure. Minutes later, I’m out on the street.

Dozens of cars and taxis shoot up First Avenue, but there’s little pedestrian traffic in this area. I glance around, just to be sure. Also, waiting for the light to change, I try Mulroney again. I’m confused why I haven’t heard from him. He’d acted so eager to hear what I might discover at WorkSpace.

When the Walk sign flashes, I dart across the avenue, heading farther east to the medical imaging facility, a good thirty minutes early.

“You’re sure you have no metal anywhere on you?” the technician asks when it’s finally time for the procedure and I’m sporting a medical gown. I sense I look checked-out to him.

“Yes, I’m certain,” I inform him.

I’ve never had an MRI before, but I’ve seen pictures and basically know what to expect: a huge white machine shaped like a donut, people behind a window speaking to me over an intercom as my body slides into the donut on what looks like a long tray. The noise is worse than I’d expected, but I don’t care. Somehow all the honking, thumping, knocking, blaring, buzzing, and foghorning force my brain to stop working.

Everything comes rushing back, though, once I’m on the street again later. I check my phone, which I’d had to store in a locker during the exam, and see there’s still no call from Mulroney. I do my best to tamp down my growing irritation. Maybe an urgent issue arose with another case, or he could be chasing down a lead for me. Still, I leave him another voice mail.

My phone pings with a text. It’s Hugh inquiring about the MRI. I almost sense he wishes there was something physically wrong with me, like he’d prefer “brain tumor” to “unbalanced” any day. I respond, saying thanks, the experience was uneventful and that I’ll know the results once the neurologist has had time to review the images.

You headed home now? he replies.

Gonna run some errands. Back in a couple of hours.

I do have errands to run. It’s been days since I bought toiletries or hit the gym or had my nails done. But there’s something even more important on my list. I need to finally retrace my steps in the East Village, explore those streets in the hope that something I see will jog a memory, the way the rain on my trench coat did last night.

I shoot my hand up for a passing taxi and give the driver the address for Eastside Eats on Seventh Street.

After zigzagging east, the cabdriver hops on the FDR Drive at Seventy-First Street and zooms south. To my left the East River sparkles in the sun. On any other day, I’d stare out, mesmerized by the comings and goings of the tugs and barges, but I’m too wired to pay any attention.