Nine Lives, page 4
“What’s your name, son?” Sam had said, aware that he was letting a little of his Jamaican accent slip into the question.
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No, you don’t. I’ll remember your face. And one of these days I’ll arrest you, probably for drunk and disorderly, and when that happens, you’ll be glad to know that I forgot you ever said what you just said to me.”
The man had looked confused. He’d looked confused, too, when Sam had, in fact, arrested him about two years later after he’d gotten drunk, this time at the Kennewick Harbor Hotel, and reached across the teak bar top to grab the breast of the college girl who’d been working behind the bar. True to his word, Detective Sam Hamilton acted as though he’d never met the real estate agent named Harvey Beach before. It had been the only time anyone had said anything racist to him in the state of Maine. In fact, most people he’d met had been perfectly friendly, despite the reputation New England had for unfriendliness. And that had included Frank Hopkins, ever-present owner of the Windward, who’d been murdered on his morning walk.
Sam thought back and was pretty sure that Frank had been married when he’d first met him. A dark-haired woman who worked at the post office. He thought her name might have been Sheila. She’d left town to move to Florida and had not invited Frank to go with her. That was years ago, and Frank was now a confirmed bachelor and a man of strict habit—the walk on the beach each and every morning unless the wind was just too much, then most likely a half-day spent working on the daunting task of keeping the Windward Resort profitable and running, then a long evening spent in the Windward lounge, quietly nursing a succession of Bud Lights—and as far as Sam knew, there was no room in that schedule for love affairs. Not only that, but Frank did not make enemies. He was an easygoing boss, friendly to everyone. Which meant that what happened to Frank on the beach felt like something else altogether, something, for lack of a better word, wrong. If it hadn’t been for the letter, Sam would have thought that Frank had been killed by accident, a mugging gone wrong maybe, or, who knows, maybe someone who just wanted to experience how it felt to kill a man, press his face into the sand. But what about the letter? That list of names?
Sam did a search of the other names online, to see if any of them had come up in a murder investigation, but there was nothing. Still, he was just searching through Google. The state police would be looking at their own database. Something—some connection between the names on the list—would come up.
2
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 12:30 P.M.
Jessica Winslow almost always went to Cece’s for lunch on Fridays, usually with Mary from the accounting department, but Mary was on vacation this week, and Jessica thought she’d try that new lunch place over on Congress Street, the one with the rotisserie chickens in the window.
All the tables were taken but there was a seat at the back counter. She ordered iced tea, a smoked chicken leg with rice and beans, and fried plantains on the side. The old Latino guy behind the counter scanned her face, then asked her one of her least favorite questions. “Where you from, chica?”
She hadn’t heard this particular question in a while, but she’d heard it enough in her life. That and “What are you?” or, the less rude but just as condescending “Aren’t you pretty?”
“Maryland,” she answered.
“No, I mean before that.”
“Maryland, far as I know.”
The old man raised one eyebrow, but gave up, and went down the counter to take another order. Jessica had been adopted, but all her parents knew for sure was that she’d come from Vietnam. There was definitely some Vietnamese in her, but there was also some African blood, and white blood as well. She wasn’t certain, but she assumed she was the product of a Vietnamese woman and an African-American soldier. And if that was the case, then it was possible that her mother had been a prostitute. Honestly, she didn’t care that much. She never thought about it till some stranger decided they’d love to know all about her ancestral history, as if it were any of their goddamn business. She felt the anger rising up and tamped it down. The old guy was probably harmless, just wanting to figure out if she spoke Spanish. Lots of people took one look at her and assumed she did.
The geezer brought her the chicken leg, and it was much better than she’d been told. Halfway through her lunch, her phone, turned upside down on the counter, buzzed twice, and Jessica ignored it, partly because her fingers were covered in chicken grease, but mostly because she just wanted to enjoy the remainder of her food. But the third time her phone buzzed, she put the chicken leg down, wiped her fingers on her napkin, and looked at the screen. Two of the calls were from Aaron, and one was from Stephanie, the receptionist. There was also a text from Aaron. Where are you?
She was about to text him back but called instead. He picked up right away.
“Where are you?” he asked, some annoyance in his voice.
“Lunch. It’s lunchtime.”
“You know that list?”
“The one I got yesterday in the mail?”
“Yeah. One of the names on it was Frank Hopkins.”
“I remember.”
“A Frank Hopkins was murdered this morning in Kennewick, Maine.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. Come back to the office, soon as you can.”
“I will. I’m on my way.”
She thought about bagging up the remainder of her lunch but decided against it. She paid up and left.
Back at the office Aaron intercepted her halfway between reception and her cubicle. She thought he looked pretty ragged and wondered how long he’d stayed at the Club Room last night.
“What’s the story?” she asked.
“I sent the list to analysis, and apparently someone there had actually read about the murder of a Frank Hopkins today in Kennewick, Maine. I mean, they would’ve caught it, anyway, but still.”
“What happened to him?”
“To the analyst?”
“No, to Frank Hopkins. In Maine. How’re you doing this morning, Aaron?”
“Sorry, I hung out a little too long with Anthony last night.”
“No worries. How’d this guy die in Maine?”
“He’d been taking a walk on the beach near where he lived. He was forcibly drowned, his head held in a tide pool or something.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. No one. I know you saw his name on a list yesterday and said you didn’t recognize it, but have you given those names any more thought? Do you have any connection with this man?”
“Nope.”
“So here’s the thing—”
“It’s a pretty fucking common name.”
“Frank Hopkins?”
“Yeah, I mean …”
“So here’s the thing. There was an envelope at the scene of the crime, addressed to Frank.”
“He had the list?”
“Exact same list. The one with your name on it.”
“Shit,” Jessica said.
“Yep,” Aaron said.
3
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1:33 P.M.
Ethan Dart was entering his own apartment when he heard the trill of the landline. He checked the digital readout on the handset, just to make sure it wasn’t his mother, the only actual person, besides solicitors, who still called him at his home number. It was a number from Albany, New York, that he chose to ignore.
He went to make coffee, saw that there was a quarter pot left from yesterday (or was it the day before?), and poured it over ice, then got his guitar and returned to the living room. Sitting down in a shaft of pale sunlight coming in through the window, he watched dust motes rise up from the sofa he’d had for as long as he’d had this apartment. He was exhausted, and took a long, teeth-numbing swig of his iced coffee.
Settling the acoustic guitar on his knee, he strummed out a couple of chords, then tried to recall the words to the song he’d written the day before. They instantly came back to him. Reciting them now, he remembered deciding, the night before, that the song had been crap, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Last on Your List.” That name wasn’t too bad. And maybe, just maybe, the song was actually about Hannah, whose apartment he had recently departed. From what he knew about her, her list of conquests was pretty extensive. Not that his wasn’t. Was he falling in love? Would the song work better if the first line was, “Woke in Hannah’s dreams again last night”? Then he could call the song “Hannah,” a better title than “Last on Your List.” He tried it out, then fished around in the glass ashtray for enough pot to fill a bowl. What he really wanted was a goddamn cigarette.
Jittery, he stood up, did a few jumping jacks, then checked the phone to see if Albany had left a message. They had. He checked it, expecting some robocaller, but got a real voice instead, a woman’s voice, identifying herself as Jessica Winslow and asking him to call her back right away. He knew the name instantly; she’d been on that strange list he’d received yesterday. In fact, she’d been the name he was having trouble remembering the night before. Maybe that list really did have something to do with one of the songwriters’ agencies he’d sent demos to. Albany, though? That didn’t sound right.
“Hi, Jessica?” he said. She’d answered her phone before he even heard a ring.
“Is this Ethan Dart?”
“It is.”
“My name’s Jessica Winslow. I’m a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
“Okay.” Ethan sat back down on the sofa.
“Have you received a letter recently, one with a list of names?”
“I got it yesterday. Your name’s on it, too.”
A slight pause, then she said, “Yeah, it is. You remembered that?”
“Sure. I mean, I just got the list yesterday.”
“Did it mean anything to you, the list? Do you know who it came from, or any of the other names?”
“No, it didn’t mean anything. I thought it must be some kind of mistake.”
“What about Frank Hopkins? Did that name mean anything to you?”
“No, none of them did.” Ethan heard another voice—a male one—in the background say something.
“Has anything else unusual happened in your life recently?” she said. “Anyone threaten you? You make any enemies?”
“Uh, don’t think so.”
“Okay. Just checking. Do you still have the letter, or did you throw it out?”
“No, I still have it. Do you want me—”
“No, just leave it where it is, and don’t touch it again. You’re at home now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to send a local field agent over to your place to collect the letter. Can I confirm your address?”
“What’s going on? Should I be worried?”
“We’ll send an agent over, okay? Don’t be worried, at least not yet. We’re still trying to figure out what’s going on.”
“That wasn’t reassuring,” Ethan said.
The agent laughed. “It wasn’t, was it? Look, just don’t touch the letter again before the agent arrives. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure,” Ethan said.
After ending the call Ethan went and looked at the list, still sitting next to his laptop. He’d forgotten that he’d used the back of the letter to write down the lyrics for his new song, and now he was a little embarrassed that he’d be handing it over to federal agents. Not that they’d care. Who knew, maybe someone in the FBI would see those lyrics and realize what a genius he was and introduce him to his song-producer cousin. Ethan laughed in the empty apartment. Then, just for the sake of posterity, he took out his phone and photographed the back of the list.
4
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 3:50 P.M.
The second person from the list that Jessica succeeded in finding was Arthur Kruse. She reached him on his cell phone while he was at work at the hospital, and when she asked about the list, it took him a moment to realize what it was she was talking about.
“Oh, right,” he finally said.
“So you did receive a list yesterday in the mail?”
“Uh-huh.”
She asked him the same questions she’d asked Ethan and got essentially the same responses. He didn’t know anyone on the list. Nothing unusual had happened recently in his life. As far as he knew, he had no enemies.
“I’m also going to need access to that letter, and the envelope if you still have it,” Jessica said. “Can you be at home in about half an hour?”
“I can’t really,” Arthur said. “I’m in the middle of my shift, and—”
“It’s important.”
“Sure,” he said, knowing that between Gina and Maggie they’d be okay for the next hour or so. He didn’t live far from the hospital, and he could be back in no time.
“And one more thing,” Jessica said. “This is a long shot, I know, but do you know someone by the name of Gary Winslow?”
Arthur thought, then said, “It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m forty-five.”
“Your father’s not named Arthur Kruse, or Art Kruse, as well, is he?”
“He was,” said Arthur. “Art Kruse.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is he dead?”
“Actually, no. I shouldn’t have said ‘was,’ but I haven’t seen him or spoken with him in over ten years.”
“So his name is Art.”
“It’s Arthur but he goes by Art.”
“So I don’t suppose you remember if he knew anyone by the name of Gary Winslow?”
“I’m not sure I could name a single one of my father’s friends. Didn’t you say your name was Winslow?”
“Uh-huh. Gary’s my father and I remember that he had a friend named Art Kruse, or I think I do, and somehow the name stuck with me. They were college friends, I think.”
“My father went to Princeton.”
“Okay. So they weren’t college friends,” Jessica said.
“Your father went to …?”
“He went to UVM, but I know that he knew an Art Kruse. Does your father have a lake house?”
“No, but his parents did. I’ve seen pictures. Up at Squam Lake in New Hampshire. I’m confused. What does your father and my father being friends have to do with the list?”
“I’m sorry. It is confusing. I’m an FBI agent but I also received a list in the mail, most likely the same list you received.”
“Okay. That’s why your name sounded a little bit familiar to me. So do you know what the list is about?”
“No idea. That’s what we’re trying to figure out. What we’d like to know is if there are any connections between the people who received a copy. Do you think there’s any way you can call your father and find out if he had a friend named Gary Winslow, and where they met?”
“I don’t even know how to reach him, honestly,” Arthur said. “And if I did know how to reach him, I just don’t think I’d be able to call.”
“I understand. If there’s a way for you to find out how I could get in touch with him, then maybe …?”
“Sure.”
Arthur drove back home in Richard’s Subaru, past the barren fields and rotting farmhouses of the valley. One portion of the hazy sky had taken on a dark swollen look, and he wondered if a storm was coming through. Because his name had been brought up, Arthur thought a little bit about his father, wondering what his life was like now. He occasionally got a report from his sister, Samantha, who did talk to their father, but rarely saw him. Art Kruse lived in an over-fifty-five condominium complex in West Palm Beach, Florida. Samantha said that he once claimed he had a girlfriend who lived in one of the other units, but she said it took him a little while to even come up with her name. With the possible exception of this girlfriend, it was clear to both Arthur and Samantha that their father was entirely alone. It bothered Samantha a little bit, but Arthur never thought about it.
Art had cut his son out of his life after finding out he was gay, but Arthur sometimes wondered if they would have had a relationship even if he’d never told him. His father was a hardcore Republican, a Fox News addict, priding himself on not being politically correct, which meant he got to say his racist, sexist, and homophobic remarks out loud and feel as though he was bucking a trend. When Arthur had come out to his father, two years after his parents’ divorce, Art had given him a crooked smile, then said, “You’ll probably tell me you’re getting married next. Just don’t expect me to come.” In many ways, it had made things easier, his father’s dismissal of him. When he and Richard actually did get married, Arthur mailed an invite to his father, fully expecting to hear back that he wasn’t coming. Instead, he got no response, not even a refusal, and Arthur wrote him off for good. Richard once asked him if he thought about his father, and whether their relationship might one day be saved, and Arthur had answered truthfully that he rarely, if ever, thought about him.
Back at the house he only had to wait for less than five minutes before a Lincoln Navigator pulled into his driveway, and two men, both dressed in gray suits, got out.
“Arthur Kruse?” one of the men asked, holding up a badge. He had a short white beard that extended only to his jawline. The pudgy skin under his jaw was pink and shaved.
Arthur showed them the letter and the envelope, both already deposited in his recycling bin. Wearing gloves, the second man, younger, clean-cut, very handsome, plucked both pieces of paper from among the catalogues and junk mail and frozen food boxes.
