At First Sight

Chapter 23

I THOUGHT BOB BUTLER HAD AGED TERRIBLY IN THE months since Chandler died. He looked tired and drawn sitting in his car in front of my house. He had lost weight, and I could see new lines framing his mouth, cutting the skin around his eyes. As I looked at him sitting there, smiling, ready to tell me his good news, I wondered if I could go through another meeting where some promising clue he found turned into a disappointing dead end.

"Come inside, I've got some coffee on:" I told him.

"No, no… I wanta get going. Got me two hundred miles t'go, and I want t'get there 'fore it gets too late."

He leaned over and opened the passenger door, so I slid in. The car smelled like fried grease and old socks. Since Althea died, Bob had fewer and fewer nights when he went home. He had turned his car into temporary living quarters. I suspected he was either sleeping in the backseat or on a couch at the precinct house.

"Let's hear the news," I said, trying to keep it upbeat, while not expecting much.

"Remember the sheet I sent to all them tire stores?" he asked. "Well, I got a hit." He pulled out a fax and handed it to me. On the top of the page, in letters that were designed to look like tire treads, it read:

DALE'S TIRE TOWN NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA WHERE THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD

I scanned the fax and saw that it was from somebody named Dale Winthrop. He wrote that on April 13th of this year, he had sold four new Firestones to a guy in a blue Taurus with a busted-up right front fender. The fax said that the tires he took off the car still had more than an inch of good rubber left.

"That's wonderful," I said, curbing my emotions as I handed it back.

"This guy sells four tires to a Taurus driver in April," Bob continued. "The thirteenth is the day after Chandler was hit. Takes about four hours to get to Newport News, so let's say our killer does the hit-and-run here between eleven and eleven-thirty that night, drives up there, arrives around four in the morning, waits until eight when the guy opens up, and switches all his rubber. It fits the timetable. Why would this guy with the busted-up blue Taurus change four perfectly good tires? That's my question:'

"It's a wonderful break, Bob," I said. But inside, I was conflicted. This was going to lead where it would lead, but at the end of the day, it wouldn't bring Chandler back. I still wanted the killer caught. I just didn't want to lose myself in the process.

"I'll call you if I get anywhere with this guy Dale," Bob said. "I've already got an artist with the Newport News PD on standby. Gonna try and get Dale to describe this guy in the Taurus so we can get a sketch. I'll call if it jells."

I gave him a hug and held his hand. It felt thin.

"You're not eating. I want you to come in and let me make you a sandwich. You can't drive all the way to Virginia with no food or sleep."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Ellis:" he said, smiling at me. Bright light danced for a moment in his soft gray eyes. "I'm gonna get this bird for ya, just like I promised."

I patted his hand and got out of the car.

"I'll call you tomorrow morning," he said, then started the Crown Vic and pulled away. I watched him leave until his taillights disappeared in the dark mist.

Despite Bob's news, as I walked into the house the Mean Reds were buzzing over me, trying to find a way back in.

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out an ice-cold bottled water, then went out to sit on the back porch. My legs were still quivering from the run. Rubbery, fan-sized leaves on the huge magnolia trees behind my house rattled loudly in a gusting breeze. It was a familiar sound and setting. I was desperately trying to pick a new path, but once I'd stopped running, the same tiresome questions caught up to me. How could I leave Charlotte? This was our house. How could there be life without Chandler? No matter how badly I wanted to move on, the emotions over my husband's death were still raw, and they haunted me.

Snap out of it, girl, I lectured myself. You gotta get on with this. But, as always, every time I stopped moving or sat and contemplated, I was trapped by memories of our past and the enormous realization of what I'd lost. Once that happened, I always started to sink. Self-pity… Longing… Despair.

Then came the anger. Just like always.