Just One Look
That was the first step—not just acceptance, not just understanding, but total truth. Human beings are not built to withstand that kind of hurt. That then is when the denial begins. Denial floods in quickly, salving the wounds or at least covering them. But there is still that moment, mercifully quick, the real Stage One, when you hear the news and stare into the abyss, and horrible as it is, you understand everything.
Lorraine Conwell sat ramrod. There was a quiver in her lips. Her eyes were dry. She looked small and alone and it took all Perlmutter had not to put his arms around her and pull her in close.
“Rocky and me,” she said. “We were going to get back together.”
Perlmutter nodded, encouraging.
“It’s my fault, you know. I made Rocky leave. I shouldn’t have.” She looked up at him with those violet eyes. “He was different when we met, you know? He had dreams then. He was so sure of himself. But when he couldn’t play ball anymore, it just ate away at him. I couldn’t live with that.”
Perlmutter nodded again. He wanted to help her out, wanted to stay in her company, but he really did not have time for the unabridged life story. He needed to move this along and get out of here. “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Rocky? Did he have enemies or anything like that?”
She shook her head. “No. No one.”
“He spent time in prison.”
“Yes. It was stupid. He got into a fight in a bar. It got out of hand.”
Perlmutter looked over at Daley. They knew about the fight. They were already on that, seeing if his victim had sought late revenge. It seemed doubtful.
“Was Rocky working?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Newark. He worked at the Budweiser plant. The one near the airport.”
“You called our office yesterday,” Perlmutter said.
She nodded, her eyes staring straight ahead.
“You spoke to an Officer DiBartola.”
“Yes. He was very nice.”
Right. “You told him that Rocky hadn’t come home from work.”
She nodded.
“You called in the early morning. You said he’d been working the night before.”
“That’s right.”
“Did he work a night shift at the plant?”
“No. He’d taken a second job.” She squirmed a little. “It was off the books.”
“Doing what?”
“He worked for this lady.”
“Doing what?”
She used one finger to wipe a tear. “Rocky didn’t talk about it much. He delivered subpoenas, I think, stuff like that.”
“Do you know the lady’s name?”
“Something foreign. I can’t pronounce it.”
Perlmutter did not need to think about it long. “Indira Khariwalla?”
“That’s it.” Lorraine Conwell looked up at him. “You know her?”
He did. It had been a long time, but yes, Perlmutter knew her very well.
• • •
Grace had handed Scott Duncan the photograph, the one with all five people in it. He could not stop staring, especially at the image of his sister. He ran his finger over her face. Grace could barely look at him.
They were back at Grace’s house now, sitting in the kitchen. They had been talking for the better part of half an hour.
“You got this two days ago?” Scott Duncan asked.
“Yes.”
“And then your husband . . . He’s this one, right?” Scott Duncan pointed to Jack’s image.
“Yes.”
“He ran off?”
“He vanished,” she said. “He didn’t run off.”
“Right. You think he was, what, kidnapped?”
“I don’t know what happened to him. I only know he’s in trouble.”
Scott Duncan’s eyes stayed on the old photograph. “Because he gave you some kind of warning? Something about needing space?”
“Mr. Duncan, I’d like to know how you came across this picture. And how you found me, for that matter.”
“You sent it out via some kind of spam. Someone recognized the picture and forwarded it to me. I traced back the spammer and put a little pressure on him.”
“Was that why we didn’t receive any answers?”
Duncan nodded. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“I’ve told you everything I know. I was on my way to confront the guy in the Photomat when you showed up.”
“We’ll question him, don’t worry about that.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. She had done all the talking. He had told her nothing, except that the woman in the photograph was his sister. Grace pointed at the crossed-out face. “Tell me about her,” she said.
“Her name was Geri. Does her name mean anything to you?”
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t.”
“Your husband never mentioned her? Geri Duncan.”
“Not that I remember.” Then: “You said was.”
“What?”
“You said was. Her name was Geri.”
Scott Duncan nodded. “She died in a fire when she was twenty-one years old. In her dorm room.”
Grace froze. “She went to Tufts, right?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Now it made sense—why the girl’s face had seemed familiar. Grace hadn’t known her, but there had been pictures in the newspapers at the time. Grace had been undergoing physical therapy and ripping through way too many periodicals. “I remember reading about it. Wasn’t it an accident? Electrical fire or something?”
“That was what I thought. Until three months ago.”
“What changed?”
“The U.S. attorney’s office captured a man who goes by the name Monte Scanlon. He’s a hired assassin. His job was to make it look like an accident.”
Grace tried to take it in. “And you just learned this three months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Did you investigate?”
“I’m still investigating, but it’s been a long time.” His voice was softer now. “Not many clues after all these years.”
Grace turned away.
“I found out that Geri was dating a boy at the time, a local kid named Shane Alworth. The name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Shane Alworth had a rap sheet, nothing serious, but I checked him out.”