Playing God (36 page)

"I'm not here," Devlin said. "I went home hours ago." He snorted. "Sorry. Haven't gotten to it, Joe. All hell's been breaking loose tonight. I was going to leave it 'til morning, but what the heck. Why don't you come down and we'll have a look."

The hair had been shimmering in the back of his mind all evening. He walked downstairs. Devlin was standing at the counter, adjusting a microscope. "It's all set up," he said. "Take a look. Left one was taken from Pleasant's hand. Right's the one you gave me tonight."

Burgess hesitated. For Devlin it was all in a day's work, but he had such high hopes for these two strands. He needed a match. A solid clue to Pleasant's killer. Ever since he'd leaned into that car, shivering in the wind, intent on rescuing those fragile golden hairs, he'd been working toward this moment. Since he'd seen the awful look on Pleasant's face, the ugly state of degradation the body had been left in, the very literal way he'd been caught with his pants down. Recalled the ultimate irony—that as he'd leaned into the car, the oldies station had been playing "It's My Party." Little Leslie Gore. A delicious piece of sick cop humor.

He walked to the microscope and peered in, the initial distorted, underwater quality resolving into amazing clarity. If Devlin hadn't told him, he never would have known he was looking at hair. "Looks like two feathers to me." He stared until his eyes watered. "Two yellow feathers. You're going to have to tell me. Have we got a match here or not?"

"You're no fun," Devlin said. "Don't you want to guess?"

Burgess sighed. So many days gone, so many people seen, so far from cracking this thing. "I'm too old, too tired and way too deep into this for fun, Wink. I'm just praying for a break before we start tearing each other's throats out. As for guessing, at this point, I'd be grateful for something better than a guess."

"Sorry," Devlin said soberly. "Do enough of this, sometimes I forget this isn't just about what we discover down here." He paused. "Congratulations, detective. Looks like you've got yourself a match."

Burgess patted Devlin on the shoulder. "Good job, Wink. Now if I can just find the person who shed that hair."

Devlin smiled. "Nice to be able to deliver some good news. And by the way, only the one on the right was shed. The one on the left was pulled, which means, with luck, DNA. I'll write it up and then I'm going home. Which is what you should do, too. Tomorrow will be here before you know it."

"I think it already is."

Burgess walked back upstairs, sat down, and reached for the phone. Then he put it down again. It was after midnight. Calling Sarah Merchant could wait until morning. Instead, he called his cousin Sam, the Cape Elizabeth cop. Not troubled about making this call after midnight. His cousin slept as badly, and as rarely, as he did. He smiled, as usual, when the voice that sounded like his own said, "Burgess."

"It's Joe," he said.

"I thought you'd call me sooner."

"Been busy."

"Yeah. Hear you got a nasty one. I know you didn't call to chat. What's up?"

"Ted Shaw."

"You like him for it? He doesn't strike me as the hands-on type."

"I like him in the background, pulling strings."

"Sounds more like it." Burgess heard the rustle of a cigarette being pulled from a package, the click of a lighter. Heard the intake of breath and the long, slow exhale. Sam had never been in a rush to do anything, even as a kid. Smartest person Joe knew who still smoked. "God, I love these things. So, cuz, what do you want from me?"

"I'd like to know if anything unusual happens out there. Any extra cars, visitors, commotion, noise. Digging in the yard."

"Think he's going to bury a body or something?"

"That's exactly what I think, but I've got no leverage to get in the door."

"Man doesn't exactly invite the casual chat, does he? Well, we don't get much excitement out here. Boys'll be happy to have something to do. Discreetly, of course. I'll give 'em the word. See if anything turns up." He coughed again, and spoke to his dog. "I'll do that before I take this damned canine out for her walk. If this is how getting old's gonna be, I think I'd like to be shot. She's got everything failing, has to be taken out every few hours, still thinks she's a beautiful puppy. You see what a nice night it is?"

"Haven't had the pleasure. You come up with anything, call me right away, okay? And tell Miriam I said hello."

He put the phone down, newly energized. This was how he'd expected to feel the past couple days. He couldn't tell whether it was the rejuvenating pleasure of a new lead, or the restorative powers of steak. Either way, he wasn't complaining. It hurt like a bastard but he could use his arm again, could get around without a babysitter. When he stood up, his body came with him. He felt lighter and freer, maybe because he was finally alone and it was night. These were a few of his favorite things.

He stared at his in-basket, overflowing with papers, things that needed looking at, stuff to go in the case file. He shuffled through it idly, sorting it into piles, dialing his home machine to check messages. Wedged at the side was a note from Remy Aucoin with a field interview card attached. There were a couple messages from Sandy, asking him to call. His eyes were scanning Aucoin's note when his sister's voice exploded off the tape: "Goddamit, Joe! You can't just drop this girl in my lap and disappear. I've called and called. At home. At work. You're never there, or you won't return my calls. She needs to see you, to talk to you. Don't you understand?"

There was a silence, and then, before it cut off, she was back, still explosive. "You call me, Joe, whenever you get this message. I don't care what time it is. If she takes off just because you won't be responsible, it's your fault!" The message ended abruptly. There was another message, immediately afterward. This time Sandy's voice was more subdued. "Please. She's so nervous and edgy she's making me crazy. If she takes off, and something happens to her, I'll blame you."

He reached for the phone, then decided to finish Aucoin's note first. Anything was better than Sandy's wrath. Her mood would not be improved by the fact that it was nearly one a.m. He picked up the note. "Sgt. Burgess, wondered if I'd missed anything, so I went back through the cards and found this. Maybe it will help. Aucoin."

The card, dated a month before, was not an interview but only a field observation. Suspicious vehicle. Seen in the area before, with a male subject in the driver's seat. Old GMC pickup. White cap on the back. And a license number. Feeling like a hunting dog on a fresh scent, he got the owner's name and address and wrote the information in his notebook. Then he called Sandy.

Her husband Mike answered, a sleepy, anxiety-edged hello. "Sorry, Mike," he said. "It's Joe. I need to talk with Sandy."

Mike didn't say anything, but Burgess could hear soft voices and rustling sounds as Sandy was roused. When she finally did come on the line, his sister began with a sigh, a silence, and then, "It's too late. She's gone."

He couldn't say why-didn't-you-call-me, because she'd tried. "When?"

"Couple hours ago."

"Any idea where she went?"

"None. She left you a note, though."

He was heading north anyway. "I'll be right over."

"What's your hurry?" Rustling sheets. "Sorry. I just get tired of all the drama, Joe. Some of us try to live normal lives, you know?"

"My line of work, I don't bump up against much of that."

"Sorry," she murmured. "I'll make some coffee. See you when you get here."

He went through his routine automatically. Checked his gun. His badge. His cuffs. Put his notebook in his pocket. Got a freshly charged radio. Told dispatch where to find him. Then he went downstairs—the stairs, not the elevator—to the garage. Still no chance to see what the night was like, just the gritty cold and damp of concrete. He started the engine and drove out into the black velvet night. Through the quiet streets. Down Franklin and onto 295 north, heading first to his sister's, then north toward Boothbay Harbor and points beyond. It was time for some answers.

When Sandy answered the door, puffy and rumpled from sleep, the hall dim behind her, he was rocked by the sense that he was seeing his mother. He'd never noticed the strong resemblance before. It happened when you were too close to things. They were both tall and dark, broad-shouldered women with ample bodies and fine, long legs. Sandy had their mother's thick, dark hair and sad brown eyes. She even wore the same pale green robe.

"That mom's robe?" he asked.

"You've got a hell of a memory," she said. "You ought to try living in the present." She slammed two cups down on the counter. "Cream and sugar?"

"You're the one wearing the robe."

Her eyes narrowed. "Cream and sugar?" He nodded. "Hungry? There's pie."

"What kind?"

"This isn't a restaurant."

"Give it a rest, Sandy. I know you're pissed. I'm sorry, okay?"

She jerked her chin toward the table. "Sit." She poured coffee into his mug, put the half and half and the sugar bowl in front of him, and lifted the foil off the pie plate. She cut a big wedge of apple pie and dumped on a big scoop of ice cream, like his mother had done countless times after their nocturnal perambulations. She put the ice cream away, covered the pie, and brought him his slice, sitting down across from him. "That girl matters to me," she said. "I wish you hadn't gone and messed with her head."

"What about my head?"

"You're the grownup."

"She's a grownup."

"She's a screwed-up kid who wants the world to think she's tough. And she worships the ground you walk on."

"I told you how it happened. I regret it. Deeply. But I was drugged and half-asleep and she got naked and got in my bed. So I'm a flawed human being. We agree on that. The important thing is, it's the middle of the night and she may be at risk. You got the letter?"

"What was she doing there?"

"She and Kyle thought I needed looking after."

His sister sighed. "Terry should have known better. Eat. I'll get the letter." She crossed the room and pulled a plain white envelope from her purse.

"You read it?" he asked.

"Wasn't addressed to me."

He unfolded the pages and read them. Alana had careful girlish penmanship—readable, a little oversized, with circles for dots and long tails on the ends of words. "Dear Copman," it began, "you hurt my feelings bad." He hunched his shoulders, acutely aware of his sister's scrutiny. "But I know you've got a lot on your mind right now. I only wish you'd called me or something so I didn't feel so used. Not like I'm not used to that, huh? Maybe I deserved it, though, because you know what? I lied to you again. Like if lying is not telling the whole thing, I mean."

Girlish language, too. She hadn't been constrained by the formalities of the work world. She just wrote like she thought. "Here's what I didn't tell the truth about. The night Dr. Pleasant got killed, I saw a guy in a truck drop that other girl off at Dunkin' Donuts. I think maybe it was the same guy I told you about. The one who picked me up and asked about the doctor that time? I didn't really see him but the truck looked the same. I know you're getting real mad at me reading this because you're wondering why I didn't tell you this, right?"

Right, Alana, I am pissed at you.
"You want to know why I did it?" He read her explanation but he already knew. "I did it because I thought you'd keep coming back and I could give you little bits and it would be fun. Fun for me to see you and fun because you'd be proud of the way I kept remembering things. I was going to help you solve the case. At my place, when I saw how wore out you were, I was going to tell you, but I was mad about that other woman. Then I was going to tell you after we left Dunkin' Donuts but you got beat up. Things happened too fast and then you dumped me here and I never got another chance to talk to you. You didn't call and I was going crazy."

There was a blot where the ink was smeared. He hoped it wasn't a tear, expected it was. "It's not like Sandy isn't nice. I love her and she never makes me feel like I'm bad or anything, and your nieces are the sweetest kids. I wish they were my sisters. Maybe if I'd had a family like that I never would have ended up how I did. But that's the way it is. I love you, Joe. I know you'll never love me back. I mean, like, I know you love me and all that, only not the way I want. I want to make you breakfast and fuck your brains out and give you babies. And you want me to be a nice girl with a nice job and a safe life with someone who is not you. So screw that, okay?"

"You're blushing," his sister said. "I thought she was giving you important information but it looks like she's saying how good you are in bed. Or how bad."

He raised his eyes from the page. "I'm good."

"Nice to think there are some men out there who know what they're doing."

"That's me. BMOC. Hunky football player, started practicing on cheerleaders when you were still humming happily to your Crayolas."

"Guys who use 'on' instead of 'with' generally don't know what they're doing."

"Some of us advance from on to with over time. Any idea where she went?" Sandy shrugged. "You find her a massage program?"

"Nice of you to ask. I busted my butt, called in some favors, spent hours on the phone, and yes, I found a program. Maybe we could even have persuaded her to try it, if you hadn't played the strong silent type. People take work, you know. Sustained work. Human interactions of all sorts, not just sex, go better with continued contact, not just wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. I'm going back to bed. Good luck finding her." She left the room, the scent of her anger lingering in the air like ozone.