The Soul Collectors

37

Darby figured John Smith had either hit the lottery or robbed a bank, because there was no way a retired cop could afford this massive old Victorian home. It was situated on a cliff and had a sweeping view of the ocean. The driveway held a Mercedes and a Lexus, and some serious money had been spent on the landscaping in the front. Lots of fresh autumn flowers — enough to open a small nursery.

The man who answered the door was shorter than her, roughly five foot six. He wore a grey V-neck cashmere sweater with jeans and a pair of scuffed penny loafers. With his slim build and thick blond hair parted on the side and threaded lightly with grey, John Smith could easily have passed for someone in his late forties or early fifties. But the craggy face and saddlebags under the bright blue eyes gave away every moment of his seventy-two years.

Smith ushered her through the bright foyer and into a kitchen the size of a basketball court. He pointed to the mugs sitting in front of a coffee maker and said, 'Help yourself. Or do you want something a bit stiffer?'

'Coffee's fine.'

'I'm going to have myself a little poke. Don't think less of me.' He winked a rheumy eye at her and filled a highball glass with Bushmills. 'Let's go outside so I can smoke.'

He put on an L. L. Bean barn jacket and with his highball glass in hand — he had poured himself a healthy shot over ice — he took her to a living room with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and overlooked the ocean. He opened a sliding glass door to a balcony. It stretched around the side of the house. Darby glanced over the railing and saw a private stretch of rocky beach and, to her far right, a part of the backyard where four puppies with stubby legs and round bellies sat on the warm grass, eagerly awaiting the petite older woman standing in front of them with their food.

'My third wife, Mavis,' he said. 'I thank the good Lord above for bringing her into my life.'

And her bank account, Darby added privately. There was no way a cop's pension could pay for a spread like this.

'People always think I married her 'cause of her money.' He turned to her, squinting in the last of the bright afternoon sun. In another hour or so it would be dark. 'You thought the same thing, am I right?'

'I don't know of too many retired cops who have waterfront views.'

'Look at you, being diplomatic.' He smiled at her, flashing a mouth full of crooked teeth turned brown and yellow from a lifetime of smoking and drinking coffee. 'Don't blame you for thinking it. Everyone does. In her former life, Mavis used to be a paediatric surgeon. She never married and spent all her free time playing the stock market. She owns the house free and clear. We don't hurt for money. I spend my time fishing and puttering around the house, and Mavis is a full-time foster mom for dogs, keeps them here until she can get them homes. What I got here?' He made a sweeping gesture with his hands. 'I consider this payback for all the shit I had to wade through.'

He held out a pack of Marlboros in a shaky hand. She politely declined and he pointed to a pair of weatherworn Adirondack chairs set up in the corner under a pale patch of sun.

Smith sat first, in the chair that faced the ocean. Darby moved her chair slightly so she could face him, but not enough to make him feel like this was an interrogation. She preferred watching people when speaking so she could watch their body language.

He wrapped his thin lips around a cigarette and plucked it from the pack. 'After you called, I looked you up on that Internet thing everyone uses, what's it called?'

'Google.'

He snapped his fingers. 'That's it. Mavis had to show me, of course, since the whole computer thing has sort of passed me by. But I can use the mouse to click on things.' He cupped a hand around the lighter, then sat back in his chair, inhaling smoke. 'You've had quite a, ah, colourful career with Boston PD.' A sly grin, and then he added, 'You know what we used to call people like you?'

'Trailblazers?'

'Shit magnets.'

The words were said without malice, but she couldn't tell if he was trying to bait her. She sensed he was building up to something, so she drank her black coffee and waited.

'It's an exclusive club,' he said. 'Yours truly is a charter member.'

He sipped his drink and made a hissing sound as the whiskey burned its way down his throat. 'I remember you now. It's the hair and green eyes. You came with the other lab rats to pick up Charlie's bike. You want to know what I thought?'

'I have a feeling you'll tell me even if I say no.'

'You're right. I said to myself, "What the hell is a such a pretty girl doing working in this shit?"'

'I like working in this shit.'

He chuckled softly. 'That's the other thing I remembered. You were really blunt. You were busting everyone's balls on procedural stuff, didn't care who you pissed off. The other lab rats you came with, they did their job and left. Not you. No, you stuck around and kept poking your nose into the case, asking us what we thought about this or that. You pissed the hell out of Karakas.'

Darby didn't answer.

'That surprise you?' he asked.

'No.'

'Why's that?'

'Most homicide cops like to steer the boat without any interference.'

'That, and they want the recognition. They want to be the ones to solve the case, get their promotion and names in the paper. Me?' He shrugged, took another sip of his drink. 'I couldn't've cared less. Putting the damn thing to bed was what mattered, and I got that same sense from you. All you cared about was finding that kid and bringing him home, which is why I suspect you're here.'

His gaze turned as sorrowful and rheumy as a bloodhound's. Then she understood. Smith believed her request to meet face to face had to do with her delivering the news of having come across either the boy's remains or some piece of evidence that would allow Smith mentally to put the case to bed. Homicide detectives didn't grieve the same way the parents of a missing child did — there was no way they should — but there was a strong emotional connection to the victim that was impossible to ignore. If the vic was dead, the case closed, you got some sort of closure. If the persons who did it were behind bars, you got the added benefit of a measure of satisfaction — enough to put the case on some shelf to gather dust and, God-willing, fade.

But cases involving missing children, when weeks turned into months and then years, you always kept a mental door open and periodically revisited it to see if there was something you had overlooked. You did it because those cases ate at you day in and day out, and the only way to stop that was to close it. To nail the goddamn coffin shut.

Smith took another drag of his cigarette and tapped it with a finger to flick off the ash.

'What happened to him?' he asked, curls of smoke drifting through the hairy nostrils of his bulbous nose.

'He was shot to death,' Darby said. 'I spoke with him before he died.'