Not that I recall. She took the first exit, though.
He means Mooney retired as soon as she was eligible. Some cops work a little longer, grow their benefits. Mooney bailed at the earliest opportunity.
I mash out the cigarette on the porch. One more text to Frank, and I’ll go back to bed.
I type: Michael thinks he might be Tom.
A second later I add: And he saw a man that night.
I wait but don’t see the dots. A minute passes, then two, with the water lapping, making sucking sounds as it jostles beneath the docks. Frank has yet to respond. But that’s how it works with texting. You never know.
Only it gives me an uneasy feeling as I climb the gentle hill back toward the house, checking my phone as I go.
On my way, I see a light turn out upstairs.
*
In the morning, I knock on the closed door to Joni’s room; breakfast is ready. No one answers. I knock again and listen close for a moan, a groan — something. It’s ten a.m., but there’s no response. The door is unlocked. “Jo? Michael? Coming in . . .”
The bed is empty, the covers mussed. Clothes and shoes litter the floor on Joni’s side; the bedside table is crowded with half-drunk glasses of water, wadded tissues, some loose bills and change, a John Sandford hardback book she probably got from the family room downstairs.
Michael’s side of the bed is the opposite: neat and tidy. A pair of hard-soled shoes is lined up next to a folded pair of pants and his black duffel bag. His phone is plugged into the wall. They can’t be far.
I open a window to get out the musky sleep-smell and linger a moment. Michael’s bag is zipped closed, but I bet his diary is still inside.
“Hey,” Paul says from the doorway.
I fight the urge to hurry out of the room. I’m done trying to hide any of this. “Where are the kids?”
“They were up early. Ate and put on shoes, went for a walk.”
“A walk?”
“I know, right? Who body-snatched our daughter?”
Joni is still young, still figuring out who she is — but until now, our daughter abhorred physical recreation. It was always Sean who was outdoorsy and athletic, while Joni preferred . . . other hobbies.
“Hobbies” such as taking off in the middle of the night as a teenager, leaving no word of where she was going or whom she was with. Bronxville looks like a cozy, wealthy town on the outside. And it is . . . but then there’s the side that tourists and casual observers easily miss. It is a home to surgeons and lawyers and finance gurus — as well as at least one network news celebrity and one pro athlete — and people forget that these affluent, overachieving individuals tend to have children. Children with trust funds and private school enrollments and bad attitudes. Kids who get into trouble, and get into it young. Alcohol, drugs, sex. And not like in the eighties, when Paul and I grew up. The world is scarier today, I think. The consequences more dire.
If Joni has emerged from that and is the type to take Sunday morning walks with her fiancé, then good for her. “Maybe we didn’t completely screw her up,” I say.
Paul nears me. “No, we did, but kids are resilient.”
He means it to be funny, I’m sure, but it leaves me cold. I push past him out of the room.
“Hey, so, I need to go into town and get some more stain for the boat.”
I stop at the top of the stairs. “Okay. Can you take the pickup?”
“You got something you need? I can grab it for you.”
“I’m not sure right now. I’d like to just have the rental on hand, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
I flash a smile, say “Thanks,” and head down the stairs.
I’ve been checking my phone all morning for a reply from Frank, but nothing. I tell myself it could be anything — Frank is a grown man, beholden to no one. But it adds to my worries. Why did Frank suggest Laura Bishop was framed by police? Or, at least, that they used desperate measures to close the case?
Furthermore, who sent me the voice message with “I want my mommy back”? Who scrawled it in the boathouse? How genuine is Michael’s story, his implication that he’s forgotten his real past? Why is Steven Starzyk so interested in Laura Bishop’s release? Who does Michael think was the man outside the house?
Did Michael seek me out? Or is that incredibly narcissistic of me?
Does he know about his mother’s release? Is that part of why he’s here?
Does Laura Bishop believe she was falsely convicted?
I don’t have the answers to any of these questions. The only thing I’m sure of is that little Tom Bishop witnessed his mother kill his father. That’s what he eventually told me. And that’s what he told the cops.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
With Paul gone into town, Joni and Michael out walking, and Sean off somewhere, too, I have the house to myself. I’m searching through Joni’s things for another cigarette when my phone rings.
“Frank!”
“It’s me.”
“It’s good to hear from you.”
“Listen, I got something for you.” His voice sounds funny; a little strained.
“You okay?”
“Doug Wiseman,” Frank says. “I’m having some trouble tracking where he is now, but he’s a New York guy. Born and bred. And he was — well I don’t know if it was dating or what you’d call it — but he was involved with Laura Bishop after the murder. She was gonna leave town with him. Move away and start over, I guess.”
“How did you find this out?” I leave Joni’s room and enter my own. Close the door.
“That’s the thing. I kept looking into the Tom Bishop I found in Arizona, and one of his residences was at a place owned by Wiseman. I don’t know if it does anything for you, but there it is.”
I don’t know either. Ever since Michael came forward, admitting his past, the Tom Bishop from Arizona has seemed to be someone else. But with the Wiseman connection . . . Has Tom/Michael just not shared that part of his story yet? It’s possible.
“But listen,” Frank says, “I gotta talk to you about something else. That’s why I called.”
“Something happen last night?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I, um . . . this is as far as I can go, Em. I’m gonna have to let this one go.”
It takes me by surprise. “Frank, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you out.”
“You didn’t. Nah, you didn’t. I just had something come up. You know how this business goes. All it takes is all you’ve got.”
He’s lying. I can hear it in the pitch of his voice. In the spaces between the words.
“I’m just sorry I can’t go any farther with it, Emmy. I want to help you out, but . . .”
“It’s okay.”
“Yeah, well . . . Listen, you take care, Doc. I’ll be seeing—”
I catch him just before he can hang up. “Did someone contact you? Put you off this?”
Frank is quiet a moment. “It’s best if we let it go.”
Bingo.
“Just tell me if it was Starzyk.”
I listen to silence. The faint background noise of a TV.
It has to be.
“How about Mooney, Frank? Were you able to talk to her? You said she was retired in Lake George. Maybe she’ll talk to me?”