Cast into Doubt

THIRTY-ONE

Shelby drove into the parking garage in the basement of her apartment building, inserted her card which raised the barrier bar and slowly cruised down the rows of parked cars toward her space. She didn’t know how she was going to stand the wait for twenty-four hours to speak to Markson’s contact at the FBI. But she knew she had to wait. This was her best hope for some real help with muscle behind it.

Shelby knew she had to resist the overwhelming urge to drive directly to the Janssens’ house and confront Harris, throwing it all in his face. As tempting as it was to imagine herself shouting at him, exposing him, she knew it was a bad idea. A man who was ruthless enough to arrange a murder was way too dangerous to be confronted on his home territory. Besides, he would only deny it, and there would be no satisfaction in that. She would lay it out in front of the proper authorities. She wanted justice for Chloe. She couldn’t let her anger rule her actions.

Shelby glanced at the dashboard. It was still only eight thirty. She suddenly realized that she was starving as she pulled into her space beneath the building. She had been up for hours already, and had hardly slept the night before. The other tenants of her high rise were obviously getting a slow start on this gray, chilly April Sunday. Why not sleep in, Shelby thought? She wished she had someone to sleep in with. She was not one to bemoan her lack of a lover, but since Chloe’s death she had realized how lonely her life had become. Chloe was not only her daughter, but her closest confidante. You need to get out and see people, she told herself. You need to get back to work.

She decided that once she had placed everything she knew in the hands of the FBI, she should consider getting back to work at Markson’s. She found herself thinking about Elliott Markson, wondering why he too was free to come to work early on a Sunday morning. He was proving to be more complex than the overbearing boss she had heard about through the grapevine. True, he was not a genial paterfamilias like his uncle. But there was something honorable and genuine about him. She had thought this morning, when she hung up on Harris, that there was no one she could explain all this to. But during that brief interlude, when Elliott Markson stood in the office door, she had the sudden sense that she could explain herself to him.

Shelby’s stomach growled, and she hoped she had something edible in the cupboards or the refrigerator in her apartment. She’d been away so much that she hadn’t had time to stock the place. She and Jen had made tentative plans for a Sunday lunch, but she was too hungry to wait for lunch. She’d find something to throw together, she thought. She got out of her car and locked the door. Just as she was about to turn in the direction of the elevators, she felt something press her in the back.

‘Do not scream,’ said Harris Janssen.

Shelby jumped, and dropped her keys on the concrete floor. ‘What are you . . . ?’

‘It is a gun,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me use it. Just come with me.’

Shelby shook her head. She had to feign ignorance. ‘What in the world are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Don’t,’ Harris whispered. ‘Don’t pretend.’ As he spoke he was nudging her toward the entrance to the garage. Shelby looked all around her, longing to see another resident who might come to her aid. But the garage was as quiet as a cemetery.

‘Harris, there must be some misunderstanding,’ she said.

‘No. No misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I admit you did catch me off guard this morning. The mention of those cruise tickets really threw me. I was so anxious to get off the phone I wasn’t thinking straight. And then, when I collected myself, I decided to check the number. All toll-free numbers can be traced, you know. I traced yours back to Markson’s. Now come with me,’ he said, ‘and don’t say another word.’

Shelby’s heart sank; to think she had been so easily found out. Her cleverness was not cleverness at all. She thought about screaming, but the garage remained deserted. The building had no attendant at the booth, just an automated arm. Holding the gun against her, Harris pulled Shelby around the lowered arm and over to his car which was parked in a visitor’s space.

She expected him to open the passenger door, but she had misjudged his intent. He pushed a button on his keys and the trunk lid popped up.

Shelby reared back and cried out. ‘Oh no,’ she said, struggling to get away from him. He pushed her down roughly and she cracked her head on the lid. Shelby reached up automatically to press on the throbbing spot where she had struck her head. Something warm and sticky seeped over her hands. She felt him grab the waistband of her sweatpants and tug.

Dazed, she had the sickening, confusing thought that he was going to rape her. ‘Stop it,’ she cried. She held on to the waistband of her pants and with her bloody hands.

Harris reached inside his jacket and pulled something out. Suddenly, in the fold of still-exposed skin above her hip, Shelby felt a pinprick, and then everything went black.

Vivian Kendricks carefully raised the footrest on her son’s chair and Rob lowered his slippered feet gingerly on to it, wincing as they touched down.

‘How’s that?’ Vivian said.

‘Good. Much better,’ said Rob.

Jeremy started to clamber up on to his father’s chair.

‘No, Jeremy, don’t do that,’ said Vivian. ‘Your Dad’s hurting too much.’

Jeremy’s expression was crestfallen.

‘Oh, it’s OK,’ said Rob. ‘Come on, slugger. You can sit with me. Just not the lap. Not yet.’

Jeremy cautiously wriggled into the seat beside Rob. Rob did his best not to let the pain in his ribs show on his face. He draped his arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘There we go,’ she said. ‘Now we’re comfortable.’

Vivian smiled in spite of herself. ‘All right you two. But no jumping around.’

‘We’re just gonna watch a movie,’ said Rob. ‘Right?’ Jeremy’s eyes were wide. ‘Right. How about Pirates of the Caribbean?’

‘How did I know you were going to pick that one?’ Rob said.

‘I’ll get it,’ the child crowed. He crawled down from the chair and began to sort through the DVDs in a rack beside the set.

‘So, I understand that Jeremy’s teacher in preschool is Darcie Fallon,’ said Vivian.

Rob nodded, watching fondly as his son expertly navigated his video collection. ‘She’s a great teacher. She really loves the kids.’

‘She always had a crush on you,’ said Vivian.

‘Mother,’ Rob cautioned her, nodding at Jeremy who was too busy with his DVDs to be listening to their conversation.

‘I’m just saying,’ said Vivian. ‘You were the only one who didn’t know it.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Rob. ‘Is it?’

Vivian rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘All right. I’m going to set the table for lunch in the kitchen. When Dad gets back from church, we’ll eat.’ She started for the kitchen, and called back, as she reached the door, ‘I made egg salad.’

Jeremy grimaced in distaste, but Rob said, ‘Your grandmother makes the best egg salad in the world. Wait till you try it. You’re gonna love it.’

Jeremy shrugged, noncommittal. He was forcing open a DVD case and pulling out the disc. He inserted it into the DVD player, and pressed the play button on the remote, as Rob put his head back and let the relief of being home with his son and his parents wash over him. For a moment he pondered what his mother had said about Darcie. Was she right? To him, Darcie was always that little kid, hanging around the edges of what the bigger kids were doing. He had just never thought of her any other way. Although she had turned into a pretty young woman.

Rob felt his eyes drifting shut. As often happened, when he closed his eyes, he relived his accident. The fear he felt, as that jalopy-load of delinquents chased him on the expressway, ramming the side of his truck with their car while he tried to maintain control of the wheel, coursed through him again. Other drivers had whizzed by, not knowing or not caring what was happening to Rob as his truck began hydroplaning and heading for a tumble down the embankment along the highway.

Rob took a deep breath and forced himself to think about something else. He found himself picturing Darcie again, in a new light, and the thought of her gentle face was strangely soothing. Jeremy was getting ready to climb back up on to Rob’s chair. Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

‘Hey buddy, can you answer that?’ Rob asked. ‘I can’t get up that fast.’

‘Sure,’ said Jeremy eagerly. He turned and raced toward the front door. Vivian, hearing the bell, came out of the kitchen wiping her hands as Jeremy led a pair of men into the living room.

‘Cops,’ Jeremy whispered to his father.

The two officers tried not to grin. ‘I’m Detective Ortega,’ said the dark-haired man. This is my partner, Detective McMillen.’

Rob nodded to them both. ‘Is this about my accident?’ he asked.

The two men frowned at one another.

‘OK,’ said Rob. ‘So this is not about my accident.’

‘What happened to you?’ said Detective Ortega.

‘I got into an argument with a couple of kids who were drugged up,’ said Rob. ‘They followed me and ran me off the road. Your guys collared them. I thought that’s why you were here.’

‘No. We didn’t know anything about that. We’re here in regards to a man who was found murdered a few days ago.’

‘Murdered!’ Vivian exclaimed.

‘You gentlemen probably should sit down,’ said Rob. ‘Jeremy, why don’t you run up to your room and play for a little bit. We’ll watch the movie when the policemen leave.’

‘I want to hear this,’ said Jeremy, wide-eyed.

‘Go on, young man,’ said Vivian, ushering him up the stairs. ‘Scoot.’

Detective Ortega waited until Jeremy had disappeared up the stairs and then he continued. ‘Actually, I believe we’ve met before. We stopped by here one night when you were getting back from a trip. We were looking for information about a guy who had gotten a ticket on your street. An escaped convict named Norman Cook.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Rob. ‘I do remember that.’

‘A few days ago, we found his body, floating in the Schuylkill. Somebody had put two bullets in his head and dumped him.’

Rob shook his head. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Well, it turns out this Norman Cook was parked on your block because he was looking for your wife.’

‘My wife?’ Rob exclaimed.

‘Yes. Is she home? We’d like to speak to her.’

‘No. Actually. She . . . died.’

‘She did? When?’ asked Ortega.

‘On that trip you mentioned. We were on a cruise. She fell overboard.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said McMillen. ‘I heard something about that.’

Detective Ortega looked in his notebook, frowning. ‘And she never mentioned to you that this Norman Cook was here? I mean, I’m guessing, just from the fact that he got a parking ticket on your block, that he found her.’

Rob shook his head. ‘She never mentioned it to me. Why would an ex-con be looking for my wife?’

‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’

Rob shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about it. What makes you think he was looking for her?’

‘Well, it seems he went to the main branch of the library and asked the librarian to help him with the computer. He hadn’t had any internet access in prison. He asked her to Google somebody for him. The librarian remembered him because it was unusual – a man his age not knowing how to use a search engine. After they found his body in the river, she saw his mug shot on the news and contacted us. Your name is Kendricks, right?’

‘Yes, but . . . I just . . . I can’t understand why Chloe wouldn’t have said something to me. I mean, if she met with this man . . . If he came to the house . . .’

‘Who’s Chloe?’ said Detective Ortega.

‘My wife,’ said Rob.

Ortega frowned at what was written in his notebook. ‘Your wife isn’t Lianna Kendricks?’

‘That’s my ex-wife,’ said Rob.

‘This guy was looking for Lianna Kendricks. It says she lived at this address.’

‘Well, she did, when we were married. She’s remarried now. She lives in Gladwyne.’

Detective Ortega shook his head. ‘I guess our boy came calling and found the wrong lady,’ he said.

‘I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have mentioned it to me,’ said Rob.

Detective Ortega looked at Rob. ‘I don’t know. But judging from this parking ticket, I’d say they had themselves a visit.’