All the Dark Places(11)
My phone vibrates and rings on my blotter. It’s the ME returning my call. She has nothing pertinent to add to the investigation at this point. The autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow morning, ten a.m., if I want to be there. I glance out my open door. Maybe I’ll see if Chase wants to go. I’ve seen enough people cut up over the years, and my time’s better spent elsewhere. We’ll see.
By five p.m., I’m ready to close up for the day. Tomorrow will be busy.
*
Inside my apartment, I push up the thermostat, stick my feet into my slippers, and search the fridge for leftovers. I’m settled on the couch with a deli container of potato salad and a glass of cabernet when there’s a knock on my door.
Shit. I’m tired and really don’t feel like talking to anyone.
“Rita?” He calls through the door. “It’s Collin. You home?”
He knows I’m home. My van is parked in its usual spot right out front. That’s okay, I don’t mind him. Collin and I’ve gotten close in the three years he’s lived in the apartment above mine. He’s the son I never had, he says, and he’s not half wrong.
“Come on in. You want a glass?” I ask as he comes through the door. I tip my head in the direction of the wine bottle on the counter.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” He’s wearing a navy-blue sweater and skinny jeans.
“What’s up?” I ask as we flop on the couch.
“I was watching the news and heard about that man who was murdered.”
“Uh huh.”
“They showed a picture of his wife, and I recognized her.” His eyes are wide, and a light smattering of freckles make him look younger than his twenty-nine years.
“Yeah?”
He leans forward, runs his hand through his bangs, pushes them back into his thick dark hair. “I think she’s the lady who came into the café Saturday. André did a birthday cake for a Dr. Bradley, and I put together finger foods. That’s them, right?”
Their names have been released, so I can confirm that to Collin. “Yes. You or André talk to her when she picked up everything?”
“I did. André wasn’t there. I helped her put the order in the back of her Mercedes.” Collin claps a hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe it, Rita. Just think, André made that man’s last birthday cake. Can you imagine? What would it be like if you were celebrating your birthday and you knew it was your last, the end.”
“I don’t think he had any idea, Collin.”
I swallow a sip of wine, glance out the darkening window. Life can be cruel, as the cliché goes. Sometimes people do know. My brother Jimmy, along with our brother Danny, was my closest playmate growing up. Jimmy died of leukemia when he was eleven. And even as young as he was, he knew it was a death sentence back then. His last Christmas, he gave us each a gift, something of his to remember him by. I still have the Dick Tracy comic book he gave me. I try to stifle a sigh.
Collin raises his palms. “It’s just so eerie.” He often asks me about my work, but this is the first time since he and André moved into the building that he’s had any contact with anyone I was investigating. He draws a deep breath. “She seemed like a nice woman. She told me to put the stuff in the trunk so her husband wouldn’t see the cake. She wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Did you talk to him at all?”
“No. He was just sitting in the car.”
“She say anything other than the usual, ‘Gee, nice job on the cake, how much do I owe you?’ ”
“No.” He shakes his head. Then his gaze catches mine. “Will I have to go down to the police station and give a statement?”
I smile and sip my wine. “I don’t think so, hon. But I’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER 7
Molly
THE SUN HAS SET, USHERING IN A DREARY WINTER EVENING. CORRINE’S apartment is bursting with noise, my parents in the living room with the TV turned up to accommodate Mom’s encroaching hearing loss. Corrine on her phone, pacing the hall, taking care of all the concerned friends and relatives. I should be glad my phone is with the cops. I can’t deal with Aunt Ellen or Cousin Shirley and the rest right now.
Corrine swings open the front door, expecting the delivery man. She’d ordered Chinese since it was getting on to dinnertime and my parents expect to be fed between five-thirty and six o’clock, like at home, so they can take their medicine. Nothing stops their routine. But it’s Kim and Laken and their husbands. They wrap me in their arms, and we cry together. I clear my throat and lead them into the living room.
Cal and Josh sit side by side on the sofa, holding mugs of coffee that Corrine has passed around. They hang their heads, stunned, not knowing what to do, while my mother yammers on, intent on discussing every possible scenario, as though she’s working out a math word problem. If the murderer arrived at midnight and the victim . . . The evening news blares on TV, and I’m anxious to get away. I don’t want to see Jay on the news. I shudder and catch Kim’s and Laken’s gaze, tip my head, and we head down the hall to the guest room.
I shut the door behind us, glad to be out of the noise. Kim’s usual chirpy self is absent, her dark eyes tear-stained. She plops on the bed and pulls her legs up under her. Laken leans back in the only chair in the room as I pace between them.