He looks at me with half-lidded eyes, like he can smell the bullshit. “Sure,” he says.
“And what about Detective Mooney?” I ask, smiling. I should stop talking now and leave, but I’m curious. “How come she’s not here with us, reliving the old days?”
My smile is not reflected back. “Mooney is no longer with the New York State Police.” Starzyk doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he pats the side of my car. “Good luck, Dr. Lindman. Keep in touch, okay?”
He walks back to his vehicle.
It’s all I can do not to tear on the gas and squeal the tires. Instead, I pull away from the curb as calmly as I can. My own home is nearby, and I’m there in minutes.
The encounter with Starzyk has shaken me up. Once inside, I have a glass of wine to cool my nerves. As I drink, I wonder if Starzyk smelled the alcohol on my breath — the gin from my office.
The urge to smoke hits me again. I wonder if there’s a pack of cigarettes hidden somewhere in my large, stately home. Maybe Paul? He quit when I quit. We’ve left some lights on and I flick on a few more, trying to chase away the bad feelings. I hunt through drawers and cabinets, jacket pockets and basement bins, but come up empty.
“Fuck you,” I say suddenly, thinking about Starzyk. I’m normally not profane, even in private, but he really got to me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s so unexpected, I feel my heart pound. A text has just come through.
It’s from Frank Mills: Sent you an email. Check it out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Paul and I share a spare bedroom converted into a home office. We’ve meant to update either Sean’s old room or Joni’s so we can have separate spaces in the home, but we haven’t gotten around to it. I open my laptop, bring up Gmail and check the inbox. The subject line of Frank’s message reads Arizona?
As a former cop, Frank can pull favors here and there and get access to databases I can’t, like the Departments of Public Safety in various municipalities. The best I can to do on my own is check social networks for Michael Rand and Tom Bishop, which didn’t yield much.
Frank has already found something more: Thomas R. Bishop, residing in Tucson, Arizona. Twenty-three years old, born on March 4.
It’s the right birthday and age. I check the picture — an employee photo, and the quality is less than superb. But, squinting at the screen, I study the young man’s face. He’s a dead ringer for Michael. And just like Michael, he looks quite plausibly like the grown-up version of the boy I treated fifteen years ago.
Thomas Bishop works for an Amazon shipment facility, primarily driving a forklift. In the photo, he’s unsmiling, wearing a bright yellow vest.
Below this, Frank has written: Arrest record and DMV info forthcoming. — F
Well, I think, sitting back. Maybe that’s that.
I wait for the feeling of relief, but it doesn’t arrive. My father was often telling me I think too much. It seems an absurd thing to say to someone — how could a person think too much — and Roy Graber wasn’t exactly the epitome of a calm, unfettered mind.
But I know my thoughts are busy. And right now they won’t let go of the encounter with Starzyk, or the fact that Laura Bishop is getting out on parole, and what any of that might mean. Nor can I let go of what Frank said when we reminisced about the Bishop murder case: They seemed to have it in for the wife.
If Frank just texted me, he’s up. I’m loath to push too hard when he’s already doing this for free, but I just need a couple of minutes.
I call Frank, and he answers on the second ring.
”Hey there. Looks like we might be all good?”
“I hope so. I hope so, yeah.”
Frank is intuitive. “Uh-oh. What’s up?”
I tell him about the encounter with Detective Starzyk and the news about Laura Bishop getting out on parole. “Jeez,” Frank says. “Yeah, that is crazy timing. She’s out, and this kid who looks like her son shows up right around the same time?”
“I know.”
“Hey,” Frank says, “You’re the head doctor, but let me ask you — is it possible you just read about Bishop getting out? Like you saw it online or at a newsstand, barely registered it, and now you’re . . . I don’t know the technical term.”
“Projecting?” I laugh, but it sounds a bit desperate. “It’s a good theory, but I don’t think so. I’m not seeing things.”
“No, I don’t mean that—”
“I know. But there’s still the phone call.”
“Sorry, yeah, I did check that. I should’ve included it in the email — the number came back as a prepaid. I can’t track it or anything like that, I can only get the carrier and the type. It’s a Verizon phone, pay-as-you go. The type used for spam.”
I sigh. “All right. I guess that’s that. I just . . . Can I ask you one thing?”
“Sure.”
“Would it be hard to . . . fake what you showed me? To have a profile of yourself that’s made up, got you living in Arizona and all of that?”
“I mean, I’ve just been on this for a couple of hours. And that was what was there.” He pauses. “But it’s pretty hard to forge Department of Public Safety records. You’d have to hack into the system. Or maybe know someone inside. It is possible, though.”
I nod my head. I become aware I’m biting my fingernails and stop. “All right, well, it sounds like I’m just . . . that this just is some kind of weird coincidence.”
When he doesn’t answer, I check the phone connection. “Frank?”
“Yeah, sorry . . .”
“What is it?”
“While we’re talking, I’m sitting here on my computer. Just for shits and giggles, I checked out where Laura Bishop has been in prison for the past fifteen years.”
“And?”
“They bopped her around a bit at the beginning, but she did her last stretch of eleven at the same place. SCI Cold Brook. It’s, ah, right up by you.”
I know exactly where it is. It’s a minimum-security women’s prison that’s fifteen minutes from the lake house.
“Jesus, Frank.”
“Yeah, that’s . . .”
He doesn’t know what to say, and neither do I. I’m already moving, closing the laptop, shutting off the light, heading downstairs to gather my things.
“Frank,” I say as I quickly descend the stairs, “I gotta go.”
“Yeah. I guess — wow. Maybe there’s something to this.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Hey — be careful. I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
I hang up as I come into the kitchen. My empty glass of wine sits on the kitchen island. I fill it again as I tell my phone to call the lake house.
“Calling lake house,” the phone says, and the line starts to ring.
I listen until the machine picks up. The outgoing message was recorded years ago, and Joni’s voice has a high, pre-teen pitch. “You’ve reached the Lindman residence . . . um, please leave a message.” Instead of leaving one, I try Paul’s cell phone next. He won’t have reception at the house, but it seems like they might be out.
His phone goes to voicemail. So does Joni’s.
*