No Safe House

Sixty-two

Detective Rona Wedmore left Spock to work his magic, intending to go straight back to the station to follow up on other possible leads. She’d work the phones for a while. Talk to relatives, old coworkers, friends, of both Eli Goemann and Heywood Duggan. Anyone she could find. She’d check in with Joy, see what she’d learned.

But en route, Rona decided she needed a moment.

Alone.

She pulled into the parking lot of the Carvel on Bridgeport Avenue. Went inside and bought a chocolate milk shake. Wedmore could not remember the last time she’d treated herself to a milk shake.

Rather than drink it there, she drove back downtown, grabbed a parking spot on South Broad Street alongside the Milford Green, left the car, and found herself a park bench under the shade of a towering tree. She took a seat and sipped her milk shake.

What was it Heywood had said to her the night before? About his client?

Basically, he was trying to get back what you were to me. He was trying to get back the love of his life.

The son of a bitch. Why’d he have to say something like that? And if he’d felt that way, why’d he have to be such a bastard?

She’d loved him, too, back when they were seeing each other. God knows, she loved the sex. Between his shifts and hers, and the fact that he was living in Stamford and she in Milford, their times together were irregular and rushed. Sometimes they’d meet at motels in Fairfield or Norwalk, slip between the sheets, have a quick drink afterward, and off they’d go, their separate ways.

But then she found out she wasn’t the only one. Snooped through his cell phone once when he slipped out of the motel to buy them some cold beer. Found e-mails.

What could she say? She was a cop. It was in her nature. He should have known better than to leave his phone there.

And then, holy smokes, the phone rang. Right in her hand. Rona had debated whether to answer. What if it was work related? What if it was something really important?

“Hello?” Rona said.

A woman: “Oh, uh, I think I must have dialed wrong.”

“You looking for Heywood?” Rona asked.

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” She hung up.

The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him when he came back with that beer. Things went south after that, despite his protests that the other girl meant nothing to him. Rona refused to see him anymore. Before long, she’d met Lamont, and the love they had for each other was the real thing, no doubt about it, even if he was never quite the lover Heywood had been. They had the church wedding, the big reception, honeymoon in Vegas, the whole deal.

Then Lamont went to Iraq and came back a shell of a man.

It was months before he even spoke. But he was doing well now. She knew he’d never forget the things he saw, but she believed he was going to be okay.

Wedmore had a long sip of her milk shake. Still icy cold. She had to be careful not to drink it too quickly. She’d get a brain freeze.

She felt herself wanting to cry.

Rona Wedmore was not going to cry sitting on a park bench in the middle of the Milford Green.

But she wanted to. For Heywood. For Lamont.

For herself.

She watched three small children run past with balloons. A woman in her eighties walking her dog. A young couple on another bench having an argument. Too far away to hear the details.

Her cell phone buzzed.

Wedmore sighed inwardly. Took another sip of her milk shake, then rested the takeout cup on one of the park bench planks. She reached into her purse, found the phone, glanced at the screen, and saw that it was work calling. She put the phone to her ear.

“Wedmore.”

“It’s me.”

Spock.

“Yeah,” she said.

“I found the car — pretty sure it’s the same one — on one of the traffic cameras. Got a clear look at the plate.”

“Give it to me. I’ll run it down.”

“Way ahead of ya. Got a name and address here if you’ve got a pencil.”

Wedmore got out her notebook.