Heartsick

CHAPTER 10

It was almost 7:00 P.M. and it was dark and Archie’s ribs hurt. It was all the standing around. Or the humidity. Or maybe just the mind-numbing boredom. Kristy Mathers had been gone for more than twenty-four hours. And after a day of interviews, searches, and dead ends, it had come to this: Their best avenue of investigation was to stand there waiting for something to happen. The overwhelming sense of impotence was hard to bear.

Archie used his thumb and forefinger to open the pillbox, still in his pocket, and slip out a Vicodin. He knew them from the other pills by touch: the size, shape, the cut mark. He slipped it in his mouth. If anyone saw, it would look like a mint. Or an aspirin. Or pocket lint. He didn’t really care. The bitter taste of stale coffee hugged the back of his tongue. He was wishing he had another cup, when Chuck Whatley, a rookie patrol cop with a freckled face and a shock of unnaturally orange hair, waved Archie over with his flashlight. Dusk had settled, and there was a chill in the air despite the cloud cover. Archie walked quickly from where he was standing at the edge of the hubbub. He felt damp, even though it had only misted. That was how it was in the Northwest: It rained just enough to get you wet, and yet somehow never enough that you could be bothered to don something waterproof or carry an umbrella. Officer Whatley was standing next to a maroon Honda. It had rust around the tire wells and looked mottled where the wax finish had worn off. He stood like all patrol cops stand, with one thumb hooked on his belt, bent over talking to the passenger, periodically looking up excitedly as Archie approached.

Under the streetlight, the maroon Honda looked sequined with rain. Officer Whatley’s eyes were bright. “She thinks she saw something, sir,” he said.

Archie kept his voice level. “Ask her to pull over so these people can get by,” he told the officer. Whatley nodded and leaned toward the passenger, and the Honda pulled out of the line and next to a police cruiser. The driver’s door opened and a young African-American woman tentatively stepped out. A pair of hospital scrubs hung loosely over her skinny frame and her neat cornrows were held back in a low ponytail.

“What’s this all about?” she asked Archie slowly.

“A girl disappeared last night,” he said. “You didn’t hear about it?”

The skin of the woman’s face seemed pulled too taut, the lines of her skull too evident beneath her flesh. She pulled at her fingers until they popped. “I’m a nurse’s assistant at Emanuel. I work nights. Sleep days. I don’t keep up on the news. Is it connected to those other girls?”

Officer Whatley broke in, no longer able to contain himself. “She saw Kristy Mathers last night.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Archie said with a stern glance. “You on your way to work now?” he asked the woman, opening his notebook.

“Yeah,” she said, still eyeing them uneasily.

“And you worked the same shift yesterday?”

She shifted her feet. Her scuffed white clogs snapped against the wet pavement. “Yeah.”

A few other uniformed officers had gathered around, curious and keyed up at the possibility of a witness. They stood on the balls of their feet, leaning in toward one another, waiting. Archie could feel the woman physically shrink at all the attention. He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder blade and guided her a few steps away from the small huddle. He tilted his head next to hers, his voice gentle. “And you would have been by here about this same time? You weren’t running late or early?”

“No. I never run late or early. I’m punctual.”

“We won’t keep you long,” Archie reassured her. “And you think you saw Kristy Mathers?”

“The girl in the photo? Yeah. I saw her. Up at Killingsworth and Albina. I waited for her to cross. She was walking her bike.”

Archie did not allow himself to react. He didn’t want to startle the woman. To pressure her. He had talked to hundreds of witnesses. And he knew that if someone felt pressured, they would try too hard, and their imagination would fill what their memory couldn’t recover. His hand remained lightly on her back. He was steady, unflappable-the good cop. “She was walking it? Not riding it?”

“No. That’s why I noticed her. My mother used to make me and my sisters do that-walk our bike across busy streets. It’s safer. Especially in this neighborhood. People drive like fools.”

“So the bike wasn’t damaged. It didn’t have a flat tire or anything?”

She pulled at her fingers again. “I don’t know. Not that I noticed. Someone took her? Someone took this girl?”

Archie evaded the question. “Did you notice anything else? Anyone following her? Anyone suspicious on the street? Any vehicles?”

She shook her head sadly and let her hands drop to her sides. “I was on my way to work.”

Archie took down her contact information and her license number and let her go on her way.

A moment later, Detectives Henry Sobol and Claire Masland walked up behind him. Claire was carrying two cups of coffee in white paper cups with black lids. Both Henry and Claire, Archie noticed, were wearing waterproof jackets.

“What was that?” Henry asked.

“Witness saw Kristy walking her bike about three blocks from here at”-he checked his watch-“about 6:55 P.M. Her friends say she left rehearsal at six-fifteen. Which begs the question, Where was she for that forty minutes?”

“It doesn’t take that long to walk a bike three blocks,” Henry observed. “Even walking real slow.”

Claire handed Archie one of the cups of coffee. “Back to the friends,” she said.

Archie glanced down at the cup in his hand. “What’s that?” he asked.

“The coffee you asked me to get you.”

Archie looked noncommittally at the cup. He didn’t want coffee anymore. He was actually feeling pretty good.

“No,” Claire said. “I had to go eleven blocks for that coffee. And you’re drinking it.”

“I’m pretty sure I asked for a nonfat latte,” said Archie.

“Fuck you,” said Claire.