Killer Move

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Five thirty found me perched on a chair out by the pool. I had the sliding door behind me open—the one leading to the living room rather than the kitchen—so I’d hear the instant a key was inserted into the front door. I had my cell phone on my lap. I had the house phone on the table—I’d carefully carried it through, holding one corner with fingers protected by a piece of paper towel, feeling absurd but telling myself I’d feel far worse if it turned out I’d fucked up a set of fingerprints, if it came to that. Which it wouldn’t. Of course. My wife was not home yet, that was all. And had lost her phone. Or her battery had run down.

Or something.

There had been a whole lot of somethings in the last half hour. I had discovered in myself a vein of wild inventiveness that, when my life got itself back on track, I was determined to apply to my career. My current obsession was trying to convince myself it had actually been Stephanie on the phone when I called the house. That she’d said the word modified in an unusual tone to wind me up (the most convincing version of this fantasy had her frisky with drink, mischievous with the triumph of her morning’s meeting) and was now out shopping hard, to rub the point home. I could just about get the idea to work if I made myself believe she had a reason to know the impact of the word—but that was tough: she only knew about one of the cards, and I hadn’t made a big deal of it at the time or since. I was finding the story hard to let go of nonetheless, because as time went by the alternative explanations felt less and less appealing.

I’d put Deputy Hallam’s card next to the phone on the table. I’d also given myself a deadline.

Six o’clock.

At six thirty I hadn’t made the call. It was still only an hour after the point when Steph would normally be home, and I’d by then semiconvinced myself that were it not for all the other things that had happened I wouldn’t be worrying. I’d be checking blogs or refining the six-and-a-half-year plan or listening to podcasts while getting virtuously upside an extra gym session. It’s amazing what you can get yourself to believe, briefly, if you really put your mind to it. I’d also changed out of my suit into jeans and a shirt, presumably in the belief that looking smart-casual would help in some way, I don’t know.

Suddenly my cell phone rang. I saw immediately that it was the Shore Realty office number.

“Who’s that?” I asked cautiously.

“It’s Karren. Look, I’m still at work.”

Normally I would have asked why, of course. Right now I couldn’t care less. “Okay, so?”

“The cops have been by again,” she said. “I think they were kind of looking for you.”

“Why? Why would they be looking for me?”

“They didn’t say, but I got the sense something’s happened with the David Warner thing. They made me go through my entire meeting with him again, play by play. They seemed very serious. Where are you, anyway? You just blew out of here and didn’t come back.”

“I came home.”

“Okay. Um, why?”

I had to say it to someone. “I don’t know where Stephanie is.”

“You supposed to be meeting her?”

“No.” Already I regretted saying anything. “She’s just . . . I can’t get hold of her.”

“At her office?”

“At her office, on her cell, anywhere.”

“Oh,” she said, and I stopped regretting. There was a marked lack of irony in her tone. “That’s weird. You guys are attached at the hip, communication-wise.”

“Well, yeah. We are.”

“She mad at you?”

I hesitated. “She may be.”

“That means yes. You want womanly counsel on the matter? That what you’re hoping for?”

“No. I didn’t realize you even had womanly advice to dispense.”

“I don’t put everything on show, my friend. The good stuff stays in the drawer for special customers. For this phone conversation only, you qualify.”

“Okay.” I felt nervous, not knowing what she’d be likely to say, or how I’d wound up in a position where I was listening to Karren White’s opinion on anything.

“If she’s real mad, then she’s going to want to come back, slam the door, read you the riot act with the volume up. There is no point trying to circumvent this process, so just tie yourself to the track and wait for the rage train to run over you. Meanwhile gird your loins for saying ‘sorry’ about ten times more often than you think you can bear.”

“Then what?”

“After that, I got nothing. I know it probably seems like we chicks are all the same, but actually each of our kind is slightly different. It’s your job to know what Stephanie’s going to need to hear next.”

“No,” I said tersely. “I didn’t mean that. I meant . . . what if she doesn’t come back?”

It felt strange to be talking to Karren in this way, but less odd than I might have expected. Maybe because of the pictures I’d seen (with their fake but effective message of connection). A part of me was also aware, however, that if Steph did march into the house and find me on the phone with Karren, she’d be marching straight the hell back out again. This call needed to end soon, however helpful Karren was trying to be.

“She doesn’t come back by midnight, tell the cops,” Karren said. “Matter of fact, you might want to mention it early, give them a heads-up when they arrive.”

“What do you mean, ‘arrive’?”

“Crap, sorry—didn’t I make that clear? They’re on their way to your house. Right now.”

“You’ve been a great help, Karren. Thanks. I’ll have a talk with the cops, get everything straightened out.”

“No problem. I’ve—”

She probably said more, but I’d cut the connection. I walked back into the house. I poured a tall, cool glass of water from the fridge and drank it in slow, measured gulps. I put the glass in the dishwasher. Turned back to face the room. All that was fine.

But then I did the dumb thing. I’m not even sure why. Could be that waiting in the house for so long had put me on a hair trigger. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. The prospect of having to explain that again caused a spasm of spastic motion—and the idea of sitting in the house waiting for cops to arrive is no one’s idea of a fun time. Either way, a section of my consciousness centered not in my head but in my guts said: Nah, not going to hang around for that.

I went to the den and got a pad. I wrote a message:

Steph—please call me! I’m really sorry. But I really need to talk to you—now. I love you, Bxxx

I put the sheet on the counter next to the phone.

Then I left the house.