He checked all the windows, even those up on the third floor that only a human fly could access, for weakness. He found them all properly latched. The main garage door was locked and did not appear to have been tampered with in any way.
Paul grabbed a ladder from the garage and hauled it up two flights of stairs, chipping paint on the wall with the legs as he made some turns, to allow him to reach the one access panel to the attic. Flashlight in hand, he climbed to the top of the ladder and gave the square panel door enough of a nudge to slide it to one side. Then he went up one more step and poked his head into the space.
He turned on the flashlight and did a slow 360-degree sweep of the attic. There was nothing up there but rafters and insulation. They’d never used the space for storage. It was too difficult to get anything up there and then, later, bring it back down.
He returned the ladder to the garage.
Well. So that was that.
Now he almost wished the typewriter was not tucked away in the trunk of Charlotte’s car. If it were here, he would place it next to the laptop, look at it, and say, “I’m here. What would you like to talk about?”
At one point, the phone rang. It was Anna.
“I wanted to see how you were doing,” she said.
“Okay. Thanks again for coming out in the middle of the night.”
“I’ve an opening at two if you’d like to come in.”
Paul thought for a moment. “No, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? You weren’t so good a few hours ago.”
“Don’t worry. I think I’ve come to some sort of . . . realization. An acceptance.”
“And what’s that, Paul?”
Paul said nothing.
“You there?” Anna asked.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Look, I’m going to leave that two o’clock open. If you change your mind, just come in. You don’t have to call.”
“Okay. Good to know.”
Anna said good-bye and Paul put away his phone.
_________________
CHARLOTTE WAS RIGHT. HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.
That didn’t mean he had to jump in the car and drive to Mystic. But some fresh air wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe a walk to downtown. Lunch someplace.
As he came out the front door, he was almost knocked back, as if by a fierce wind, but there was not so much as a breeze.
It was music that nearly knocked him off his feet.
Dee dee, diddly-dee, dee dee, dee-da, dee-da, dee da dee.
It was the Tastee Truck driven by Leonard Hoffman. It was stopped almost directly across the street. Leonard was not behind the wheel. He was more likely at the serving window, but it was on the side of the truck that Paul could not see. Leonard had clearly been stopped by one or more of the neighborhood kids. Paul then noticed one pair of legs, from the knees down, visible through the underside of the truck.
Paul huddled by his front door. He did not want to engage with Leonard. He did not want to see him. He considered going back in the house but concluded he could wait here until the truck moved on down the street.
The truck rocked on its springs ever so slightly as someone moved inside it. And then there was Leonard, settling back in behind the wheel, putting the truck into gear, and pulling forward.
As the truck exited Paul’s field of vision, he saw who Leonard’s customer had been.
It was a man, holding an ice-cream cone. Late twenties, early thirties. His face was severely bruised and a bandage was wrapped about his forehead. One arm was in a sling.
Jesus, Paul thought. That guy’s had the shit beat out of him.
And then he realized who he was looking at.
Gavin Hitchens gazed across the street, locked eyes with Paul, smiled, and took a lick of his ice-cream cone.
Paul felt his insides turn to liquid.
He stared back for several seconds before summoning the strength to approach. Crossing the street, he shouted, “What the hell do you want?”
Hitchens held his spot, had another lick. “I wanted an ice cream,” he said.
“I’m betting that guy goes through your neighborhood, too,” Paul said, stopping within ten feet of the man. “Get the hell out of here.”
Hitchens nodded slowly. “Soon as I finish. Can’t drive and eat an ice cream with one hand.”
Hitchens took one more lick, tossed the unfinished cone at Paul’s feet, then turned and walked slowly up the sidewalk to his car, limping severely. He opened the driver’s door and gingerly got behind the wheel.
Paul watched until Hitchens had reached the end of the street, turned, and disappeared.
_________________
ANNA WHITE SAT AT HER OFFICE DESK AND GLANCED AT THE WALL clock. It was nearly three in the afternoon.
Two o’clock had come and gone.
Paul Davis had not shown up.
Forty-Five
It was almost the time when Charlotte, on a slow day, might have gone home. But then a couple from Boston came into the office without an appointment. They had been driving around Milford when they spotted a house for sale on Elmwood Street, half a block from the sound. It was a beautiful three-story with a strong Cape Cod influence. Cedar-shingle siding, a balcony on the third floor. Two-car garage. And out front, a FOR SALE sign with the name CHARLOTTE DAVIS on it.
Charlotte sent Paul a text to tell him she would be home late. He’d gotten plenty of texts like that before.
Charlotte showed the couple the Elmwood house and drove them around town to check out a few more properties.
It was nearly nine-thirty by the time they were done.
Charlotte had a small briefcase with her that was stuffed with various documents and real estate flyers. She decided to toss it in the trunk of her car, where it would be out of sight.
She got the remote out of her purse and hit the trunk release button. Lights flashed, and the trunk yawned open a few inches. She lifted it up and set the briefcase next to the tarp-shrouded typewriter.
She pulled the tarp back and stared, briefly, at the exposed Underwood. She then pulled the tarp back over it and slammed the trunk shut. She got into the car, turned on the engine and headlights, and pointed the car toward home.
She saw the emergency lights as she turned onto her street.
There were so many, they were almost blinding. It was difficult to tell just how many vehicles there were up ahead. She could see at least two police cars, an ambulance, and what even looked like a fire truck.
They appeared to be clustered either right in front of her house, or just beyond it. Either way, the street at that point was impassible.
A male officer standing in the middle of the road held up a hand to stop her. She powered down her window.
“Road’s closed, ma’am,” he told her.
“My house is right there.” She pointed. “Can I get that far?”
Her words made an impression on him. “ That house?”
She nodded.
“Okay, go on ahead.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Just go on ahead.”
She put the window back up and crept the rest of the way, edging past a Milford Police cruiser and turning into the driveway behind Paul’s car. As she opened her door she found a uniformed female officer waiting for her.
“You live here?” she asked.
“Yes,” Charlotte said.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Charlotte Davis. Could someone please tell me what’s happening?”
“Please wait here.”
“Can I go inside?”
“Please wait here.”
The cop walked off, threading her way between the emergency vehicles blocking the street. Charlotte saw her conferring with someone. A fortyish black man in plainclothes with what appeared, at least from where Charlotte was standing, a badge of some kind clipped to his belt.
The man looked in Charlotte’s direction and approached.
“You’re Mrs. Davis?” he asked.
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“My name is Detective Arnwright. Milford Police.”
“No one will tell me what this is all about. Give me a second. I want to let my husband know I’m home.”
“What’s your husband’s name, ma’am?”
“What? It’s Paul. Paul Davis.”
Charlotte had reached her front door, tried opening it first without a key, and when that did not work, started fiddling with the set of keys still in her hand.