“Still do. That’s your problem.”
We keep walking. It feels odd going past where the signs hung, as though some invisible force field has finally dropped and allowed us to move forward. In fifty yards we are able to see the remnants of a barbed-wire fence. When we get closer, we can start to make out the ruins of shacks poking through the underbrush and overgrowth.
“I did a school report on this junior year,” Ellie says.
“On what?”
“You know what was out here, right?”
I do, but I want her to tell it.
“A Nike missile base,” she says. “A lot of people don’t believe that, but that’s what these were originally. During the Cold War—I’m talking about the 1950s—the army hid these bases in suburban towns like ours. They stuck them on farms or in wooded areas like this. People thought it was just an old wives’ tale, but they were real.”
There is a hush in the air. We move closer. I can make out what must have been old barracks. I try to imagine the scene—the soldiers, the vehicles, the launchpads.
“Forty-foot-high Nike missiles with nuclear warheads could have been launched from right here.” Ellie shades her eyes and stares up as though she can still see them. “This spot is probably less than a hundred yards from the Carlino house over on Downing Road. The Nikes were supposed to protect New York City from a Soviet missile or airplane attack.”
It’s good for me to hear this refresher. “Do you know when the Nike missile program was dropped?” I ask.
“Early 1970s, I think.”
I nod. “This one closed down in 1974.”
“A quarter century before we were in high school.”
“Right.”
“So?”
“So most people, well, if you ask the old-timers, most will tell you that if these bases were secret, they were the worst-kept secret in northern New Jersey. They all knew about them. One guy said they actually put one of the missiles on a float in the July Fourth parade. I don’t know if that’s true or not.”
We keep walking. I want to get inside the old base—I don’t know why—but the rusted fence is still holding firm like an old soldier refusing to step down. We stand and look through the chain link.
“The Nike base in Livingston,” Ellie says. “It’s a park now. For artists. The old army barracks have been converted to artist studios. The launcher base in East Hanover was torn down to make room for a housing development. There’s another base down in Sandy Hook where you can take a Cold War tour.”
We lean forward. The woods are completely still. No birds coo. No leaves rustle. I can hear only the sound of my own breathing. The past does not simply die away. Whatever happened here still haunts these grounds. You can feel that sometimes—when you visit ancient ruins or old estates or when you are alone in the woods like this. The echoes quiet, fade away, but they never go completely silent.
“So what happened to this Nike base after it closed?” Ellie asks me.
“That,” I say, “is what the Conspiracy Club wanted to find out.”
Chapter Nine
We walk back to Ellie’s car. She stops by the driver’s-side door and cups my face in her hands. It’s a maternal touch, something I don’t recall experiencing with anyone other than Ellie, and, yes, I know how odd that sounds. She looks at me with genuine concern.
“I’m not sure what to say here, Nap.”
“I’m fine.”
“This may be the best thing for you.”
“How’s that?”
“Not to sound melodramatic, but the ghosts from that night linger in you. Maybe the truth will set them free.”
I nod and close the door for her. I watch her drive away. As I head to my own car, my mobile rings. It’s Reynolds.
“How did you know?” she asks.
I wait.
“On three other occasions, Officer Rex Canton stopped drunk drivers in that same spot.”
I wait some more. Reynolds could have found that out in minutes. There is more to tell here, and I’m pretty sure I know what it is.
“Nap?”
She wants to play it this way, so I say, “All the DUIs were for men, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And all were going through either a divorce or child custody hearing?”
“Custody hearings,” Reynolds says. “All three.”
“I doubt it was just those three,” I say. “He probably used other spots.”
“I’m going through all of Rex’s DUIs. It may take some time.”
I get in my car and start it up.
“How did you know?” Reynolds asks. “And don’t tell me hunch or intuition.”
“I didn’t know for sure, but Rex stopped that car very quickly after it left that bar.”
“He could have just been scouting the place.”
“But we saw the tape. Even with the crappy quality, you could tell the driver didn’t sway or drive erratically. So why would Rex pick on him? And by coincidence the woman in the car went to high school with Rex—it was all too much. It had to be a setup.”
“I still don’t get it,” Reynolds says. “Did this guy fly in to execute Rex?”
“Probably.”
“Did your ex help him?”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Is that love talking?”
“No, logic.”
“Explain.”
“You heard the bartender,” I say. “She came in, had drinks with him, got him liquored up, got him in the car. She wouldn’t have had to go through all those stages if she and the hit man were working together.”
“Could have just been part of the act.”
“Could have been,” I say.
“But your way makes sense. So you think Maura was working with Rex?”
“I do.”
“Doesn’t mean she didn’t set Rex up too.”
“Right.”
“But if she wasn’t involved in the murder, where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“The hit man could have turned the gun on her. Could have forced her into the driver’s seat. Could have made her drive him to an airport or something.”
“Possible.”
“And then what?”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I tell her. “We need to do some more legwork. I doubt the wives in these custody cases just walked up to Rex and said, ‘Hey, I need to damage my husband’s rep.’”
“Right, so how did they hire him?”
“My guess would be through a divorce attorney. That’s our first move, Reynolds. The three women probably had the same lawyer. Find out who it is and we can ask him about Rex and Maura.”
“He—or she, let’s not get sexist—will claim it’s work product.”
“One step at a time.”
“Okay,” Reynolds says. “So maybe the killer was one of the targeted husbands who wanted revenge?”
That makes the most sense, but I remind her that we don’t know enough yet. I don’t get into the Conspiracy Club because her findings seem to cut against all that. I’m still hanging on to my silly little hope that somehow Rex’s murder will circle back to you, Leo. No reason not to, I guess. Reynolds will take the lead on this DUI angle. I can still work on the Conspiracy Club angle. That means locating Hank Stroud and Beth Lashley.
But more than that, it means bringing in Augie.
I could still wait on it. There is no reason to tear open this wound again, especially if Augie is in the midst of making some strides in his personal life. But keeping something from Augie isn’t my style. I wouldn’t want him deciding what I could and could not take. I need to show him the same respect.
Still, Augie is Diana’s father. This won’t be easy.
As I hit Route 80, I press the button on my steering wheel and tell my phone to call Augie. He answers on the third ring.
“Hey, Nap.” Augie is a big guy with a barrel chest. His voice is comfortingly gruff.
“You back from Hilton Head?”
“We got in late last night.”
“So you’re home?”
“Yeah, I’m home. What’s up?”
“Can I stop by after my shift?”
He hesitates. “Yeah, sure.”
“Right. So how was the trip?”
“See you later,” Augie says.
He hangs up. I wonder whether he was alone as we spoke or if his new lady friend is still with him. That would be nice, I think, at the same moment I also think that it’s none of my business.