Heartsick

CHAPTER 13

Susan pulled into one of the freshly designated visitor parking spots at the task force offices. She was a half hour early. Susan was never early. She didn’t even like people who were early. But she had woken up at sunrise with that burning hum in her stomach she got when she was about to write a really good story. Ian had already left by then. If he’d woken Susan up to say goodbye, she didn’t remember it.

A fog had settled on the city overnight, and the air was heavy and wet. The chilly humidity soaked into everything, so that even the inside of Susan’s car felt like it might mildew as she sat there.

To pass the time now, she opened her phone, punched in a number, and left a message on the voice mail she knew by heart. “Hi, Ethan. It’s Susan Ward. From the alley.” From the alley? Christ. “I mean the Herald. I was wondering if you’d had a chance to talk to Molly about me. I really think her story deserves to be heard. Anyway, give me call. Okay?” Ian had said not to pursue the story. That it was a time waster. But she had some time to kill, so why not do some background? Background wasn’t really pursuit. Really.

She waited in the car for a few more minutes, smoking a cigarette and watching people go in and out of the building. Susan was usually a social smoker. She smoked when she was out. When she drank. And sometimes when she was nervous. She hated being nervous. She flung the cigarette out the car window and watched the tiny explosion of sparks as it hit the pavement. Then she checked her appearance in the rearview mirror. She was dressed entirely in black, with her pink hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Jesus, she thought, I look like a punk-rock ninja. There was nothing to be done. She bit the bullet and went inside.

They had worked all night on transforming the bank into a working squad room. The boxes that yesterday had sat half-unpacked were now flattened and stacked by the door, waiting to be hauled away. The desks sat in pairs, facing each other, each equipped with a computer and black flat-screen monitor. No wonder the public education budget was short. Enlarged school photographs of each of the girls, as well as dozens of snapshots, were pinned to a wall-size bulletin board. Several city maps hung beside them, peppered with colorful pushpins. A copier was noisily spitting out paper. Coffee cups and water bottles sat on desks. Susan could smell coffee brewing. She counted seven detectives, all on the phone. A female uniformed officer sitting at a long desk immediately inside the door looked up at Susan.

“I’m here to see Archie Sheridan,” Susan said. “Susan Ward. I have an appointment.” She pulled her press pass out of her purse and let it dangle from its lanyard a few inches above the desk.

The officer glanced at the press pass, picked up her phone, dialed an extension, and announced Susan’s arrival. “You can go back,” she said, already returning to her computer monitor.

Susan made her way through the bank to Archie’s office. This time, the white venetian blinds were open and she could see him sitting at his desk reading some papers. The door was ajar and she knocked lightly on it, feeling a slight flutter of nerves in her stomach.

“Good morning,” he said, standing up.

She went in and took the hand he offered. “Good morning. Sorry I’m early.”

His eyebrows quirked up. “Are you?”

“About thirty minutes.”

He shrugged slightly and just stood there. Susan counted four empty coffee cups on his desk.

Oh God. He was waiting for her to sit down first. Right. She scrambled into one of the burgundy vinyl armchairs that faced his desk.

He sat down. The office was small, just big enough for a large cherry-veneer desk with a built-in bookcase behind it and two armchairs in front of it. A small window overlooked the street, where cars sped by at a regular clip. He was wearing the same corduroy jacket from the day before, but today his button-down shirt was blue. She felt like she should be asking for a loan. “So how do we do this?”

Archie placed his hands in front of him on the desk, palms down. “You tell me.” His expression was friendly, welcoming.

“Well,” Susan said slowly. “I’ll need access. To you.”

He nodded. “As long it doesn’t get in the way of me doing my job, sure.”

“You don’t have a problem with that? Me following you around while you’re trying to work?”

“No.”

“And I’ll want to talk to people around you.” She examined his face. It remained relaxed, unconcerned. “Your ex-wife, for instance.”

He didn’t flinch. “Fine. I don’t know if she’ll talk to you, but you’re welcome to ask her.”

“And Gretchen Lowell.”

His face constricted just a little. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Gretchen doesn’t talk to reporters.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

He traced an imaginary circle on the desk with his palm. “She’s in the state pen. Maximum security. She can only see her lawyers, cops, and family. And she doesn’t have any family. And you’re not a cop.”

“We could exchange letters. Like in the olden days.”

He leaned back slowly in his chair and appraised her. “No.”

“No?” Susan said.

“You can shadow me. You can talk to Debbie and the people I work with. I will talk to you about the so-called After School Strangler case. I will talk to you about the Beauty Killer case. You can interview my doctor if you want to. But not Gretchen Lowell. She’s still the subject of a police investigation and asking her questions would be a distraction. It’s a deal breaker.”

“Excuse me, Detective. But what makes you think that, if I did write her, you’d even find out about it?”

He smiled patiently. “Trust me. I’d find out.”

She stared at him. It was not the fact that he didn’t want her talking to Gretchen Lowell that bothered her. He had been through some sort of hell. Of course he didn’t want his tormentor interviewed for some stupid newspaper story. What bothered Susan was a growing certainty that this profile was a bad idea for Archie Sheridan. That he had things to hide, and that she was going to find them out. He should not have agreed to any of this. And if she realized that, then she was pretty sure that smart Archie Sheridan did, too. So why was he letting her do it?

“Any other deal breakers?” she asked.

“One.”

Here we go. “Shoot.”

“Sundays off.”

“Is that when you have your kids?”

Archie glanced over her shoulder, out the window. “No.”

“Church?”

Nothing.

“Golf?” Susan guessed. “Taxidermy club?”

“One day of privacy,” he said firmly, focusing back on her, his hands now gripped in his lap. “You get the other six.”

She nodded a couple of times. She could write this series, and she could write it well. Who was she kidding? She could write it brilliantly. The story was hers. The reasons why could work themselves out later. “Okay,” she agreed. “Where do we start?”

“The beginning,” he answered. “ Cleveland High School. Lee Robinson.” He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed an extension. “You ready?” he said into the phone. He hung up and looked at Susan.

“Detective Sobol will be joining us.”

Susan tried to mask her dismay. She had hoped to have Archie Sheridan to herself, all the better to pick his brain. “He was your partner, right? On the first Beauty Killer murder?”

Before Archie could answer, Henry appeared at the door to Archie’s office, stretching his ill-fitting leather coat over his broad shoulders. He thrust a big hand at Susan. “Henry Sobol,” he said. Just a big teddy bear.

She shook it, trying to match his grip. “Susan Ward. Oregon Herald. I’m doing a story on-”

“You’re early,” said Henry.