Sharp Force, page 8
The baguette-cut emerald flames brilliant green, trembling as she holds it up to the light. Tears flood again, angry ones this time.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her, but she doesn’t try it on.
Returning the ring to the box, she sets it down hard on the coffee table.
“The receipt is inside the envelope,” I explain. “It will be helpful to have for insurance purposes.”
“How much did he spend?” she asks in a voice that’s dull and heavy.
I tell her the amount, catching a spark of fury in her eyes, a sob caught in her throat.
“Well, he shouldn’t have,” she says in the same dead tone. “Literally he damn well shouldn’t have. And you know how many times I’ve told him?”
“It appears he was carrying a lot of cash when he visited the jewelry store,” I add.
“I don’t know where he got it. He’s maxed out his credit cards. We’re so in debt we’re sinking like the Titanic.”
“I’m assuming he bought the ring for you. And not for someone else?” I don’t like to suggest.
“Who else would it be for?” she replies with an edge. “I’m not worried about him cheating on me if that’s what you’re asking. It would require too much energy. He’d rather eat a goddam bucket of chicken and drink a six-pack.” Tears spill. “I’m sorry. I know how that must sound. I’m really sorry. Forgive me. But I’m just so upset.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Reba.”
“Being angry helps me with the pain.”
“I understand.”
“The police probably already know that Rowdy did a lot of online gambling. He’d win big. And lose bigger, obviously,” she goes on to say. “He was addicted to spending money. It was a sickness.”
“He must have been getting some income from his former clients?”
“You mean clients, which I seriously doubt exist anymore? In other words, I don’t know where he gets his money. We file separate tax returns. He’s secretive.” Reba’s wounded eyes find the velvet box on the coffee table. “Rowdy shouldn’t have bought the ring.”
“I suppose it would be interesting to see if it fits,” I suggest.
“I don’t care,” she fires back. “I begged him not to get me anything expensive. As I have so many times.”
If she’d known what Rowdy intended, she would have called the jewelry store to cancel the purchase in advance. She’s done that before too when he makes grand gestures that aren’t affordable.
“The ring’s not my taste, and I don’t wear jewelry at work,” she says. “Do you suppose I can return it?”
“That might be hard since it was in the water for a while,” I reply.
“Maybe your investigator could check with the jewelry store. I don’t know why his name keeps slipping my mind.”
“Pete Marino.”
“Maybe they’ll take back the ring if he asks them?” she says.
“Better you should bring it up to the police, to Investigator Fruge,” I tell her. “My office doesn’t get involved in things like that. It wouldn’t be appropriate or in your best interest.”
“I see,” she replies, the fight knocked out of her.
She reaches for the plate of M&M cookies near her husband’s jewelry on the coffee table.
“Would you like one?” She offers me the plate.
“No thank you.”
She helps herself, then changes her mind, returning the plate to the table. A paper napkin crinkles while she obsessively wipes her fingers one at a time as if polishing silver.
“Reba, you’ve continued referencing your husband’s hit-and-run six years ago.” I go back to that. “Did the police ever have a suspect?”
“No. It happened after dark, and the car had its headlights off.” She stares unblinking at the Christmas tree. “Rowdy never saw what hit him. He only remembers hearing a loud engine behind him.”
“If he didn’t see the car, how did he know the headlights were off?” I ask.
“He would have seen light shining on the pavement as the car approached. Rowdy said it was as dark as a black hole. That’s exactly how he described it, always the same story.”
“Do you remember the name of the investigator in your husband’s hit-and-run?”
“State Trooper Trad Whalen,” she says. “Rowdy would call him now and then asking for any updates in the case. But six years was a long time ago. Nobody really cares anymore.”
“What do you remember about the night your husband was hit?” I underline the name Trad Whalen.
She tells me that Rowdy was jogging in a reflective vest with a running light around his chest. Suddenly, he heard an engine roaring up on him. Next thing he remembered was waking up three days later in the ICU after being put into an induced coma.
“I’m very sorry. How terrible.” I’m writing down what she’s saying.
“He didn’t die but may as well have, if you want me to be honest.”
She exhales a shaky breath, dropping the crumpled napkin on the coffee table.
“After that he was in constant pain and not himself in any way,” she goes on. “He couldn’t get past it. That someone would run him down and not bother stopping. A part of him really believed the person did it on purpose. And maybe whoever it was would decide to finish him off one of these days.”
“Did he have anyone in mind?” I ask.
“The government. That’s as much as he would say, and he was always looking over his shoulder,” she replies. “He got increasingly self-destructive, not caring about the consequences.”
“What about life insurance?” I think of what Marino mentioned.
“It’s a good thing Rowdy had a policy or I’d spend the rest of my days paying off his debts,” she says bitterly.
“Do you know the amount of coverage?” I’m curious to see if she’ll be truthful.
“He told me it was a lot. Five million or something,” she replies. “I’ve never looked at the paperwork and had nothing to do with him setting it up. I don’t even know who the broker was or the name of the company. Hopefully, all the paperwork is in Rowdy’s safe. I guess I need to get a locksmith here.”
CHAPTER 10
A cuckoo clock hangs above the mantel, the time nearing eight p.m. Gusting wind howls like unhappy spirits, lightning brightening the curtains. The roads must be terrible, and I’m grateful Marino is driving. I wonder what he and the twins are talking about down the hallway.
Reaching into the manila envelope again, Reba pulls out her husband’s wedding band, the broken gold chain with the crucifix, then his Rolex watch. She gently clinks them down on the coffee table, sighing often, not saying anything.
Next, she shakes out his credit cards, and cash that’s going to be damp and smell like disinfectant. Reba leans back, wilting on the sofa, staring at the expensive jewelry as if in a stupor.
“The police wondered if someone followed Rowdy to his fishing spot,” she says in a faraway voice. “Maybe someone tried to rob him, and he fell off the pier and drowned.”
“I don’t believe he drowned,” I reply.
“How can you be so sure?”
“There are ways to tell.” I won’t go into detail about the autopsy.
She doesn’t need to hear that I used a centrifuge to spin down tissue from her husband’s lungs. I made slides of that and his gastric contents, examining them with the microscope on my workstation’s countertop inside the autopsy suite.
I didn’t see any sign of the microscopic algae called diatoms. Their presence would confirm that he inhaled and swallowed river water.
“Do you recall what Rowdy had for dinner the night he disappeared?” I ask her.
“I made chili. He and the boys love my chili.”
“Anything else?”
“Coleslaw,” she says. “And cornbread. As you might have inferred, he had quite the appetite. After the hit-and-run, he didn’t exercise and gained more than a hundred pounds.”
I remember what I found in Rowdy O’Leary’s stomach when I cut it open. The ground beef, the bits of kidney beans, onion and cabbage are consistent with his last meal. Digestion would have been slowed by his excessive intake of alcohol. I suspect he hadn’t been on the pier very long before dying.
“What time did he eat?” I ask.
“Well, he was into eating early. It was around four-thirty.”
“And what time did he leave the house to go fishing?”
“Right after that, around five,” Reba answers. “He isn’t much for hanging out at the table. He’d inhale his food and push back his chair.”
“Did you know he was running an errand on his way to the pier?” I think of the time stamp on the jewelry store receipt.
He paid cash for the ring at 6:05 p.m., and from there drove on to his usual fishing spot.
“He didn’t mention anything about stopping anywhere,” Reba says.
She’s quiet for a moment, staring at the gas fire.
“And I almost don’t want to know the answer, Doctor Scarpetta. But I won’t have any peace unless I do. Did Rowdy suffer?” Reba stares at me, her eyes wide, her lower lip trembling.
“I’ve not seen anything that makes me think he did,” I reply. “I didn’t find injuries that might indicate he’d been assaulted, for example. He didn’t accidentally fall into the river, panic and drown.”
“Then how did he end up in the water?” she asks. “What in God’s name happened out there?”
“Again, it’s very early in the investigation.”
“But you must have an idea.”
“It will be a while before the labs have finished their analysis,” I tell her. “But your husband had significant heart disease. If he went into cardiac arrest, he might have felt chest pain. He might have gotten nauseous and dizzy. I suspect he was dead or almost dead when he hit the water.”
“Thank God he didn’t struggle against the current with his clothes on.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Thank God he didn’t go through a nightmare like that, didn’t really suffer.”
“I have no reason to think he did.” I don’t suggest that knowing you’re about to die is a different kind of suffering.
“But he knew something was very wrong. That’s what he was trying to tell me in the last text he started to write and didn’t send,” she says as if I know what she’s talking about.
And I don’t.
“I haven’t seen that,” I reply.
“The lady who called from the state told me they found it on Rowdy’s phone.”
“What did it say?” My anger toward Maggie boils up again.
Reba explains that while her husband was on the pier, he began typing a text to her. All it said was He, with no punctuation.
“It was the last thing he ever wrote,” she adds tearily.
We don’t know what time it was since the message wasn’t sent. Most likely, he began typing the text right before he died. But that doesn’t explain the fired rounds from his revolver or how he ended up in the water.
“Maybe he was writing help, something like that, because he felt chest pain.” Tears trickle down Reba’s cheeks. “I’m glad you don’t think he jumped into the river on purpose.”
“I don’t believe he did.”
“He would get depressed, and the medication he’s supposed to be on has side effects he hates,” she explains. “So he quit taking it, as you’re aware from what’s in his medicine cabinet. But he never talked about ending his own life. I also realize that’s what a lot of people say after the unthinkable happens.”
“Nothing I’ve seen might make me think he committed suicide. And if that was his intention, he had the gun with him.” I point out the obvious.
“The police kept badgering me about the two bullets fired.” She looks scared. “Wondering if Rowdy shot himself and fell into the river on purpose in hopes nobody would find his body. I can’t imagine him doing anything like that.”
“Your husband didn’t shoot himself,” I reply. “There are no projectiles inside his body. But it’s a mystery why he might have fired his revolver. And if he did it while fishing, what was he shooting at?”
“Investigator Fruge suggested Rowdy might have been confronted by someone. Maybe someone who thought he had money.”
Reba’s eyes continue cutting toward the hallway as if she’s worried about her sons overhearing.
“I’ve seen nothing that suggests he was assaulted,” I repeat. “Did he always drink beer while he fished? It appears he drank a six-pack in a short period of time.”
“That was when he’d do his drinking,” she replies. “Always coming home after the boys were in bed. He was never drunk in front of them.”
“If he was intoxicated, might he have gotten out of control and decided to fire his gun?” I suggest, thinking of what Maggie accused him of. “Maybe shooting it into the air, maybe into the river? People lose their inhibitions, sometimes doing reckless things when they’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I can’t imagine him doing something dangerous like that,” Reba says. “All I can tell you is he was more paranoid about our safety and security. Because of what’s all over the news. That Slasher maniac who’s breaking into homes and killing women in their sleep. The nurses I work with are scared out of their wits. After the last murder, one of them quit and moved to Atlanta.”
“I can see why the murders would make your husband or anyone more security-minded,” I reply.
“I saw on the news about the killer going after Dana Diletti next. The phantom hologram or whatever it is appearing inside her house a little while ago,” Reba says. “Rowdy believes the Slasher uses technologies that are advanced way beyond the capabilities of most computer programmers.”
“Sounds like your husband was genuinely scared,” I answer as the cuckoo clock sounds, the wooden bird appearing from behind its small door.
“He was. And so am I.” She dabs her eyes. “I don’t know how anybody couldn’t be.”
I look at the security system’s display panel on the wall, noticing the cable running to it. Her husband was astute enough to install a hardwired system that can’t be disabled by signal jamming. Benton and I have taken the same precautions on our property. Lucy insists on it.
“Do you use your security system?” I ask Reba.
“We didn’t like we should until the Slasher murders started,” she says. “Then we began setting it every night and whenever we go out. This was about the same time Rowdy started carrying his revolver. At night he kept it next to the sofa bed with the trigger lock on.”
I hear Marino’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. Then he’s back inside the living room, towering over us near the coffee table.
“I told your two little dudes to chill in their room for a while so the grown-ups can talk,” he explains to their mother.
“Those two don’t chill. What are they doing?” Reba asks.
“Playing Minecraft, busy building castles when I left.” Marino picks up his leather jacket from the chair where he left it.
“Their father designed video games in his software business. Or he used to,” she replies. “Playing them was something he and the boys did together.”
“They mentioned something interesting I’d like to ask you about, Reba,” Marino says. “Are you aware that your husband told the boys he was thinking about selling the house and moving to a different neighborhood far away from here?”
“Well, I know we can’t afford this place.” Anger sparks again. “Rowdy’s been talking about moving into something smaller and less expensive. He was obsessed with the Slasher murders and wanted us far away from here.”
“Why do you think he was obsessed?” Marino asks.
“Because the victims were involved in healthcare,” she says. “One of them was a nurse. Rowdy didn’t feel he could protect us, and he wanted to move to another state. Maybe to California. I wouldn’t hear of it. I love our house and my job at the hospital…” She chokes up.
Marino pulls out his wallet, finding one of his business cards. He places it on the coffee table as I get up from the sofa.
“My cell number’s on the back,” he says to her. “Don’t hesitate to call if you’ve got questions. Or if you have further information we should know about.”
“Something might come to you later,” I add.
She follows us back to the entryway, where I collect my coat, putting it on. I retrieve my briefcase, looping the strap over my shoulder.
“Please tell your boys it was nice meeting them,” I say to Reba as she sees us out. “I’m sorry it wasn’t under happier circumstances.”
She waits in the doorway as we pick our way down front steps that are treacherous. The iron railing is crusty with ice and too cold to grip with bare hands. Snow falls in small hard flakes that sandblast our faces, the accumulation at least five inches and glazed by freezing rain.
The white street in front is blank, the night silent, just the sound of trees rocking in the gusting wind and our boots crunching. We slip and slide, our breath smoking out as we quietly mutter expletives that hopefully Reba can’t hear from the porch. Thunder murmurs. Lightning veins the turbulent darkness.
“Thank you again,” she calls out. “Merry Christmas,” her joyless voice falters.
“And to you!” we shout, and it seems empty and ironic.
As we climb into Marino’s truck, she raises her hand in a listless wave.
Stepping back inside.
Closing the door.
We sit without talking, the engine rumbling, the defrost and heat on high. As the windshield warms, ice melts around the edges, breaking up in floes that slide down the glass.
We scroll through messages and news alerts on our phones, the police scanner chattering about traffic pileups. Downed trees are closing roads and taking out power lines. Dana Diletti’s video of the phantom hologram floating into her bedroom has gone viral. So has her interview of me talking about the Slasher murders.
