“I’m sorry, Emily.”
“You know, Frank,” I say, in a quick whisper, “they were pressuring me. Worried she was about to leave town. Or, as I know now, was about to take off with Wiseman.”
This could very well be why Frank is shying away. Corrupt cops framing a woman for the murder of her husband? You hear about planting evidence, but planting, so to speak, a child’s statement? Hiding the coercion behind the work of a consulting psychotherapist?
Bad stuff. Stuff cops would do anything to protect.
“Frank?”
But my old pal is gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I have Starzyk’s number in my phone. I think about calling him. But what would I say?
And what am I getting into?
“Mom?” It’s Sean, downstairs, having just come in from outside.
I glance at my watch — getting close to noon. I’ve spent all morning up here getting consumed by this.
“Be right down!”
I wash first, like my hands are dirty. My reflection looks guilty, my brown eyes dark and ringed with doubt.
Sean is in the kitchen, sweating in his tank top and shorty-shorts. He’s slamming a glass of water.
I put on a big smile. “Hi — go for a run?”
He nods, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I did the Mirror Lake loop twice. Where is everybody?”
“Out. Your father is in town, and I guess your sister and Michael took a walk. You didn’t see them?”
Sean shakes his head and drinks some more water. Sweat beads his upper lip. He’s tan and healthy-looking, the ropy muscles of his legs standing against his skin. He must catch me looking. “What?”
“I’m just proud of you.”
“Well, don’t be too proud, I guess.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Sean, people try to figure it out forever. You’re already doing it. You’re already living your life. This is it. The future is what we do today. You’re making money, you’re taking care of yourself. Who cares if you’re not sticking to one career path?”
He cocks an eyebrow at me like I’m nuts. “You do something to my mother?”
I hit his shoulder and he cracks a smile, then busses my cheek before heading upstairs, redolent of perspiration and fresh air. “I’m gonna hit the shower.” He pauses halfway up: “We got plans for this afternoon?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I want to take Mike out on the sailboat,” he says.
And then he’s upstairs and the bathroom door closes.
Mike.
My son is amazing, I think. Despite the sudden controversy around Michael, Sean seems drawn in, not keeping a distance. But then, Sean’s always been that way. Outgoing, friendly. Joni was always the withdrawn one, while Sean went right up to complete strangers. We even joked that he’d go off with the milkman if we weren’t careful.
I start pulling things out of the fridge for lunch, and my good humor ebbs. If what I’m about to embark on has any success — showing that Starzyk and Mooney put a frame around Laura Bishop — then my family is going to be dealing with something very different than a young man whose own mother killed his father. It will look like the cops used an eight-year-old boy to put her away.
Plus, if it were me who’d spent fifteen years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit, I’d probably be out for revenge.
*
It’s after lunch, though still no sign of Joni or Michael. Sean has eaten and repaired to the living room, where he’s lying on the couch, looking at his phone.
“Sean? I have to go out for a while.”
“Okay,” he says, distracted. Then, “Where you going?”
“To see a friend. It’ll take a couple of hours. You need anything?”
He lifts his head up so he can see me over the back of the couch. “I’m good. Gonna just chill here, wait for them to get back.”
Perfect. I decide to leave now before I talk myself out of it.
I checked into Mooney this morning and found an address in the White Pages online. Jacob R. Mooney. No mention of Rebecca, but Mooney is a fairly unusual name and Frank said Lake George, so it’s probably not a coincidence.
The rental is a sleek little Toyota Camry, black. There are scratches around the ignition from where previous renters tried to insert the key. But it’s a good car, drives solidly and speedily, and I make the hour-long trip in one piece.
The GPS brings me to a rustic cabin on the north shore of a large, oblong lake. Lake George is fed by the Hudson River, and the Mooney place is at the end of a winding, wooded road where the river ends and the lake begins.
The rain is back, blowing hard on the water. I see someone in the window as I get out and run for the door. A man about Paul’s age, but heavier, greets me with a tentative smile.
“Help you?”
“I’m looking for Rebecca Mooney?”
He has a mostly white beard and penetrating blue eyes. “Yeah, okay — who are you?”
I explain that I’m an old acquaintance. That I consulted on cases with her. “There’s one I’d like to talk to her about, but her number is unlisted and cell phone just goes to voice mail.”
“We shut our phones off,” he says, giving me an up-and-down look. The entrance has an awning, but I’m still getting wet from the raindrops pinging everywhere, back-splashing my legs.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” I say. “I would never do anything like this. But . . . to tell you the truth, it’s personal.”
“How did you find us?”
“Google.”
He shakes his head like the internet is a scourge. He’s wearing shorts and sandals but a flannel shirt. His name is likely Jacob, the homeowner listed online. He glances back into the house as he gives the matter some thought. With his attention back on me fully, he asks, “Where did you say you were from?”
“Westchester.”
“You just drove all the way up here?”
I tell him about my lake house, much closer. While we talk, I’m hunched over, trying to keep out of the rain. His face softens, like he’s taking pity. “Listen, come in. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
Once we’re inside, he closes the door behind me, muffling the sharper sound of rain. Now it’s a vibration, a drumming on the roof and eaves. “Nasty weather,” I say.
“Yeah. We need it though.”
The foyer is nice, sided in knotty pine, with an opening onto a likewise rustic kitchen. I see a cast-iron stove, maple countertops, classic farm-style linoleum that’s a ruddy brown. The setup triggers thoughts of the Bishop home.
The man is looking at me. “You said this was about a case?”
“It’ll just take a few minutes. Is Detective Mooney . . . is Rebecca here?”
He delays a reply. “She’s here. Do you . . . When is the last time you spoke to Rebecca? Or saw her?”
It’s a good question; I think back. “I believe we worked together on one more case. Or maybe it was two. Right around that same time.”
“Yeah . . .” he says. He runs fingers through his wavy gray hair.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Sorry. It’s Jake.” He puts out his hand. After a brief, light handshake, he tilts his head. “That didn’t come up on Google, too?”