“Who?” Dan asked. “The blackmailer? The guy that pushed you down in your house the other night?”
“Look, I don’t expect you to understand,” she said.
Dan opened the door of the hall closet and pulled out a jacket. “Oh,
I understand, all right,” he said. “I understand that you have no business going there by yourself. So I’m going with you.”
“I don’t want anyone else involved in this,” Keely protested sharply.
“Nicki,” he called out. “I’m going with Mrs. Weaver. We’ll be back shortly.”
“Okay, Dad,” she called back from the kitchen.
Dan nodded at the door. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t argue. Let’s get this over with.”
W
ith Dan driving and Keely navigating, they found the street where Wade’s apartment was located in the most run-down part of St. Vincent’s Harbor. It was a two-story prewar building with a brick façade that was nearly black now, from years of grime and neglect. The street floor of the building housed a discount furniture store and had a long row of grimy windows filled with an assortment of unglazed ceramic lamps and blocky sofas and chairs. The store was open for business, and a couple of people were inside shopping. Keely opened the door to the left of the display windows and ascended the dimly lit stairs to the corridor at the top. There were four doors on the second floor. The two in the front were stenciled with the name of the furniture store. The other two had numbers. Keely checked the numbers on the doors against the address in her hand. When she found the one she was seeking, she knocked and waited. There was no answer from inside, and no sound. “Wade,” she called out.
“Are you in there?”
No one answered from inside. A balding old man with horn-rimmed glasses poked his head out from the other numbered door.
“Excuse me,” said Keely. “Do you know the guy who lives here?”
“He dyes his hair like a girl,” said the old man. “He’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“That’s the one,” said Keely. “Have you seen him lately?”
“No,” he said gruffly, “and I hope he don’t come back.” He withdrew into his apartment and slammed his door.
Keely knocked a few more times at Wade’s door, but it was pointless. There was no response from inside the apartment. Dejected, she descended the stairs. As she reached the small tiled vestibule, the door
to the furniture store opened behind her and a girl with sharp features and long, wavy blond hair, wearing an unzipped maroon leather jacket and spiky black boots, came out. She edged past Keely, saying, “’Scuse me.” Then she stepped out in front of one of the brightly lit windows to light a cigarette.
Keely hesitated, then walked up to her. “Excuse me. Do you work here?”
The girl shrugged. “It’s my father’s store.”
Keely nodded. “I see. I’m looking for someone—a man who lives upstairs here. Would you happen to know anything about him? His name is Wade Rovere.”
The girl grimaced. “Oh, I know him, all right.”
“Have you seen him lately?” Keely asked.
“No, I haven’t. But I’d like to. He’s late on the rent.”
“Do you know where he went?” Keely asked.
The girl shook her head, then tucked a piece of lank hair behind a delicate, round ear that was weighted with a thick hoop of gleaming gold. “Nah, but we’re not exactly friends, if you know what I mean.”
“They said he wasn’t at work today,” Keely said.
“He’s probably back in jail.” The girl looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Who are you, anyway? You don’t look like anybody Wade knows.”
“No, he . . . um . . .” Keely cast about for an excuse. “He found my wallet. I just wanted to pick it up.”
“Ahhh,” said the girl knowingly. She tilted her head back and exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “I hope you canceled your credit cards.”
“Well . . . no,” Keely said, the lie becoming more complicated.
“Pardon me for saying so,” said the girl, “but you’re not too smart. Did he want to make a deal with you to get it back?”
The smoke curled back into Keely’s face before it dissipated into the night air. “Well, he mentioned something about a . . . reward . . .”
“Well, I think you can forget about seeing your wallet again,” the girl said. She exhaled one last cloud of smoke, tossed the butt to the sidewalk, and ground it out with the pointy toe of her boot. “He’s probably off somewhere havin’ a shopathon on your cards.”
“Do you think so?” said Keely.
“You don’t know him. Trust me,” the girl advised her. “You’d better have those cards canceled. That’s the last you’ll hear of him.” Then she sighed. “He’s been nothing but trouble since the day he moved in here. There’s an old guy who lives up stairs, Mr. Varbero . . .”
“I saw him,” said Keely.
“Wade kicked a hole in his door cause the old guy asked him to turn down his music. He’s constantly harassing him.”
“Oh no,” said Keely.
“Mr. V. is too scared of him to press charges. Of course, I was the one who rented him the apartment when my dad and my stepmother were on vacation. He came on real nice and sweet . . .” She shook her head. “He had me goin’. Then when my dad got back, he checked up on him and found out he had a record. Man, did I ever hear about that.” She rolled her eyes.
Keely hesitated and then hastily scribbled her name down on a piece of paper and handed it to the girl. “If he does come back, will you tell him I was looking for him?”
The girl raised her hands as if to say that she wanted nothing to do with it. “Put it in his mailbox. Number three. Right there.” She pointed to a row of rusted brass boxes attached to the wall. “It’s freezing out here. I’m going back in,” she said abruptly.
Keely watched, frowning, as the girl hurried back into the furniture store. Then she crossed the street to where Dan was waiting.
“What’s the word?” he said.
Keely tipped her chin toward the furniture store. “That’s where he lives, but they don’t know where he is. He’s late on the rent. She said he’s unreliable—can’t be trusted.”
“I can believe that. What do you want to do now?”
“I don’t know,” said Keely truthfully.
She walked back to the car beside him, lost in thought. She climbed into the front seat and buckled her seat belt. Dan came around to the driver’s side and got in. “You ready to go back?” he asked.
“I guess so,” she said dejectedly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. That was all I had to go on.”
For a few moments, they rode along in silence. Then Dan said,
“Just tell me something. What did this Wade character say that he knew?”
“He said . . .” she hesitated, then continued. “He said he did see someone at my house the night Mark died, and he could identify them . . .”
“For a price,” Dan said.
“For a price,” she admitted.
“That seems a little odd—his claiming he could identify them,” said Dan. “I mean, I doubt you two travel in the same circles.”
Keely felt immediately defensive. “I just wanted to hear what he had to say.”
“And what was the price for this information, may I ask?”
Keely lifted her chin defiantly. “Five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars!” Dan exclaimed. “That’s insane. You didn’t agree to pay him that?”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about this,” said Keely. “He wasn’t at work. He isn’t at home. I don’t know where he is. Let’s just drop it.”
“Yeah, well what if he turns up at your door again?”
“I’ll deal with him,” Keely said sharply.
“Why don’t you just ask the police to look into it?” he said.
“Right, the police,” said Keely bitterly. “Maybe I could get the district attorney to help as well. She was my husband’s fiancée before he met me. I mean, she is intent on punishing us, just because of who we are. Dan, believe me, the D.A. and the police are trying to make my child out to be a murderer.”
Dan shook his head. “Maybe there’s another way to find out.”
“What’s that?” she asked absently.
“Phone records,” he said. “The phone company has records of all the incoming and outgoing calls. Even local calls. Maybe if you could find out who called your house that night . . . Usually people call before they’re going to come over. Or find out who Mark called. He might have asked someone to stop by . . .”
“I’m way ahead of you,” she said. “The phone company claims not to have any record of local calls.”
“But the police always get them.”
“That’s what I said. The man at the phone company said that the police had those records only if people asked for their phone to be monitored. Like for an anonymous caller or something.”
“That doesn’t sound right to me,” said Dan.
“Me either,” Keely agreed. “But the person I spoke to at the phone company assured me that I was watching too many police shows on TV.”
Dan frowned and was silent for a moment. “What about a cell phone? They give you a record of all incoming and outgoing calls.”
“I called the cell phone company, too,” said Keely. “They told me I had to wait for the bill that included the date in question. I thought maybe I’d gotten through to the woman. I really pleaded with her to make me a printout and send it, and I thought she might be sympathetic, but so far, it hasn’t arrived.”
“You’re on top of it,” he said admiringly. “I just wish I could help you. I can see how tough this whole thing has been for you. Unfortunately, detective work is not my line.”
Keely glanced over at him. “What is your line, anyway? You always seem to be home.”
Dan smiled. “It’s true. I’m a homebody. No, actually, I do computer graphics for my old ad agency. I used to work in Baltimore. Suits and ties and traffic jams on the beltway.”
“Really?”
Dan nodded. “When Annie got sick, I had to leave work so I could take care of her,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“That was good of you—to stay home with her,” she said.
“She would have done the same for me,” he said. His gaze was fastened to the road. “After a while, I got kind of used to being at home. Even after she died, I decided to work at home. Nicole was our only child left at home. She needed me to be there.”
“I understand,” Keely said. “You do whatever you have to do for your kids.”
“Right,” he said. He hesitated. Then he said, “You know, I can understand your outrage over the whole thing with Dylan and the
district attorney. I’d be outraged if I were you. It’s just that this . . . Wade sounds like a con artist to me.”
She folded her arms over her chest and stared out the passenger-side window. She could see the reflection of her own face in the darkness, elongated and shadowy.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it seems as if this creep is preying on your misery. Of course, I feel somewhat responsible. My daughter was the one who suggested that you seek him out. But Keely, you’re hell-bent on finding this mystery visitor. Isn’t it possible that you put the idea into Wade’s head that it could be profitable for him to remember seeing somebody at your house?”
Keely’s face flamed at his suggestion. She tried to remember her initial conversation with Wade at Tarantino’s. She couldn’t remember exactly how she had put the question. Was it possible that she had planted the idea in his head?
Faced with her silence, Dan continued gingerly. “The woman back there at the furniture store indicated that he wasn’t the most honest guy in the world. Well, we know that. I mean, he’s trying to extort money from you for this so-called information. Isn’t it possible there isn’t anybody else involved?”
“What do you mean?”
“All I’m saying is that maybe it’s time to back up and look at the whole thing again. Okay, we know the police are wrong to suspect that Dylan did this on purpose. That’s out of the question. He wouldn’t do that. He’s a good kid who’s had a . . . load of things go wrong on him. I’m not saying you should give up, but isn’t it possible . . . I mean, are you so sure that you weren’t right the first time? Isn’t it possible that Dylan just left the gate open by accident? It could have happened to anybody. A simple lapse of memory, and then, once he realized what the consequences were, it was impossible for him to admit it? I mean, it would be only natural for him to be afraid to admit it. Afraid you’d be angry.”